Blades of Tempation
by TheyCantTouchUsOrWhatWeHave
Summary: It's been four years since Kurt and Blaine broke up, leaving Blaine alone in Lima to deal with his abusive father while Kurt follows his dreams in New York City. Now, Kurt has a fiance and Blaine is a drug addict. What happens when Kurt tries to take Blaine under his wing but Blaine isn't so sure he's ready to be friends with him? M for language, drug abuse, self harm, sex
1. My Heart's Crippled By the Vein

**A/N: **You can read Blaine's POV of the events (_Stained Glass)_ at my lovely co-author's account: kurtsontop. Tumblr: coffeebeanklaine. Scarves and Coffee: coffeebeanklaine. Updates every Sunday. Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoy the fic!

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**Chapter One – My Heart's Crippled By the Vein That I Keep On Closing**

_But I don't care what they say,_

_I'm in love with you. _

_They try to pull me away, _

_But they don't know the truth._

_**My heart's crippled by the vein, **_

_**That I keep on closing.**_

"Well, Kurt Hummel, you seem like a wonderful man."

Kurt blinked. That could mean so many things. Wonderful as in "thank you so much, but we won't be acquiring your talents today" or wonderful as in "I'll let you take the job as long as you give me handjobs twice a day in the bathroom"? He swallowed hard, directing his gaze away from the scrawny man with a clipboard clutched in his hands. He'd blown yet another interview. How was he supposed to pay rent now?

"I'd be very happy if you'd consider joining our staff."

Kurt jumped up eagerly, grinning broadly. "Thank you, sir. Thank you so much, I promise I won't disappoint," he said.

Frank, the current manager of the Spotlight Diner smiled fondly, his skin stretching tightly over his prominent cheekbones like elastic. He reminded Kurt a bit of a stick, if sticks had beady brown eyes and wispy orange-colored hair. "I'm glad you'll be fulfilling the position. I expect you here at seven thirty every morning, Monday through Saturday, because the diner opens at nine. We'll be performing numbers every day and I expect you to have the lyrics memorized. Got it, Kurt?"

Kurt rubbed his clammy hands on either side of his white skinny jeans and nodded frantically. "Yes, sir, I understand."

Frank pushed the rainbow beads that separated the back room from the red and black circular tables of the diner. Waiters and waitresses twirled around, balancing trays featuring various dishes across their arms as they danced to a song that blared over the speakers hung on each wall.

It was by no means where Kurt had envisioned himself, but it would give him enough money to get himself to where he did want to be. He couldn't wait to get home and tell Aaron about his day.

The bell over the front door tinkled as Frank held it open for Kurt. "It was great meeting you today, Kurt. I look forward to seeing you bright and early tomorrow morning!" he exclaimed.

Kurt shook his hand and started on his way, grinning so brightly that even the stony grey sky couldn't weaken his mood. A light rain began to fall from the sky, drenching the lively New York City and all of its inhabitants. Despite the outfit he had so carefully put together last night, and the fact that he would have to take it to the drycleaners once he got home, Kurt held out his arms and titled his face up to the sky.

The cool rain soaked his face and trickled down his neck, washing away all of his anxieties and stress and replacing it with a temporary sense of carelessness. With a smile playing on his lips, Kurt popped the collar of his trench coat and started off down the slick sidewalk.

He hailed a cab and to his surprise, one of the bright yellow vehicles yielded immediately. It was rare that he ever had the luck of getting one of the ever-moving taxis to take him home, but it felt like the entire world was on his side today.

Kurt could barely contain his excitement as he climbed inside of the warm cab and told the driver his address. He sat back against the leather seats and debated texting Aaron to let him know he had gotten the job. Kurt envisioned his boyfriend's face; the way his baby blue eyes would widen in surprise when he read the message, and then his fingers would fly across trhe keyboard as he typed an enthusiastic reply.

Finally, Kurt decided against it. He wanted to be able to see Aaron's reaction the exact moment he told him. Kurt glanced out the misted window at the busy streets; the people that hurried by with umbrellas propped overhead, the propaganda artists who loitered on the rainy pavement, broadcasting their latest products, the tourists who darted into the nearest shops with maps held over their heads. It was all so beautiful in a hectic sort of way.

As the cab slowed and stopped in front of a red light, Kurt caught sight of a man walking alone through the streets. He wore a dark grey coat, a tuft of ebony curls sticking out from beneath his rain-streaked hood, as he hunched over and strutted purposefully through the puddles. There was something about his tense posture and determined stride that made Kurt frown and furrow his brow, wanting nothing more than to get out of the cab and give him a tight hug.

Kurt understood more than anything what having a bad day felt like. He could remember every single bad day he'd had over the past twenty-one years of his life. One bad day in particular was etched into his memory permanently with a sharp blade.

_There was a dark ring of indigo around his eye, obliterating Blaine's perfect, olive complexion. Kurt sighed, wrapping his fingers around the Styrofoam frame of his non-fat grand Mocha. _

_ "What happened this time?" he asked, already knowing the answer._

_ "Boxing accident?" Blaine replied uncertainly. He was always so bad at lying to Kurt._

_ Kurt took a deep breath. "Blaine…"_

_ "Kurt, stop. Please. It's fine, it doesn't matter. It'll heal in a few days, it always does. Now, you're leaving tomorrow and I'd rather not spend my last face-to-face conversation with my boyfriend talking about what may or may not have happened during a boxing accident," Blaine insisted._

_ "We've talked enough about New York, Blaine," Kurt said slowly, watching his boyfriend's gaze carefully. Blaine was like a thin sheet of glass; if you stepped in the wrong spot, he would crack. "This is serious. You _need _to do something before it gets out of hand." _

_ Blaine's eyes squeezed shut, his hands curling into fists on the table surface. "I _can't."

_Kurt was exasperated. How could Blaine be so damn naive about what was happening to him? "Your father is beating you," he exclaimed, dragging his fingers through his perfectly coiffed hair and not giving a moment's thought to all the time he had spent that morning making every hair stay in place._

_"I know exactly what he's doing! You really think that I don't know that it's not right? That I'm not scared to go home all the time because that's all I have to go back to? I'm so_scared_, Kurt."_

_ The absolute _agony_ in Blaine's voice made his heart break and he turned away from him, trying to focus on anything but the man he loved sitting in front of him. The setting of the Lima Bean was all too perfect, people bustling around and exchanging petty conversation over iced coffees and biscotti. Didn't they see Blaine? Didn't they see all the pain sitting a couple tables away?_

_ Biting the inside of his lip to keep from crying, Kurt straightened up and glanced back at his boyfriend. "Then do something about it." He reached across the table and pulled Blaine's fingers from his cup, stroking them lightly and squeezing reassuringly. _

_ "I can't," Blaine repeated, his gaze fixed at a coffee stain embedded into the table top. _

_ "Yes, you can! You're so much stronger than this Blaine, I know you are. Go to the police. Tell them what he's doing to you."_

_Blaine ripped his hand away abruptly as if he'd been burned, "I__can't__! Don't you see that if I went to someone it would just make it so much worse? Where would I go? My mom ran away the same way you're telling me to. Except I will have__nobody__. Who am I going to go to? You're leaving for New York__tomorrow__and as much as you say your father likes me, I doubt he'd want to take me in. And I don't want to live with some stranger. It's not as easy as you make it seem."_

_Something tight coiled inside of Kurt, winding and twisting and stretching tighter with every word that left Blaine's mouth. Sympathy? Maybe. Pain? Yes. Anger? Probably. "So help me understand. Why is running away so bad? Why is getting help so bad? He's _hurting_ you, for god's sake!" _

"_He's my dad, Kurt!" Blaine stood up from his chair, pulling his bag on his shoulder. "He's all I have left! Mom's gone. You're leaving. Nobody else cares. He's the only person who still loves me. He looks after me, and sure sometimes he gets stressed out, but he always apologizes. It's like if your dad were to beat you. Your mom is gone and he's all you really have left. If he hit you, would you turn him in? Would you lose the one person that matters the most just because sometimes he has a temper?" Blaine turned on his heel, starting towards the door._

_Shaking his head, Kurt grabbed his cardigan off the chair and hurried after his boyfriend. "Blaine, stop, please just listen to me! It's not the same. He's been hurting you since you were nine years old, do you really think that's okay? Your mom would've taken you with her if she could've, but—" _

_Blaine wheeled around suddenly, his hazel eyes flashing dangerously in the bright sunlight that flooded the parking lot. "No, Kurt, she wouldn't have! Because my mother, contrary to your belief, really doesn't give a damn about me!" _

"_You're being unreasonable," Kurt declared. Anger was flaring up inside of him, dangerous and wild like a fire. _

_Blaine laughed coldly. "Oh, _I'm _being unreasonable? How the _fuck _am _I _being unreasonable?" _

_Kurt took a step back, flinching at the swear. Blaine never swore. Tentatively, he extended his hand to touch Blaine's shoulder comfortingly but Blaine shook his head and ducked out of his reach. _

"_You just don't get it. And you never will."_

_The words hit Kurt like a slap in the face. "That's not fair and you know it." _

_ Blaine rolled his eyes and started back towards his car, furiously digging the keys out of his pocket. Kurt trudged wearily after him. "What's unfair?" Blaine called over his shoulder. "That my father hits me and I can't do a thing about it? Or that I have a boyfriend who is leaving me alone with that…that monster?" _

_ The coil inside of Kurt snapped then, tossing him into a turmoil. His hands shook from where he had shoved them in his pockets, but he threw his shoulders back and narrowed his eyes, blinking back the tears that threatened to overflow. A single word bubbled up from his heart to his throat and froze on his tongue like an unwanted aftertaste. _

_ "Courage, Blaine." _

_ Blaine's back when rigid and he whirled around, a single corkscrew curl free from his helmet of gel. "Excuse me?" _

_ "You're a hypocrite. How can you tell me to be 'courageous', to 'stand up in the face of my demons', but then you run away from _yours _like a goddamn coward?" Kurt said. His voice came out much calmer than he felt and he prided himself for a moment before everything in Blaine's face shattered like glass._

_ "This is nowhere close to the same thing!" Blaine cried. _

_ Kurt swallowed, looking at everything but his boyfriend and the hurt that swelled up behind his eyes like a tidal wave. "You know what? Fine. Have it your way. I tried to understand, I tried to help you, but how am I supposed to do that if you won't let me in? I'm going to New York tomorrow, Blaine, I can't be held back by somebody who tells people to do one thing but then won't follow through on his own advice. That's not fair to me and it's not fair to you. I love you, you know that. But I just can't do this anymore." _

_ Kurt turned away hurriedly before he could see the tidal wave in Blaine's face break. His shoulders hunching and his heart crumbling in on itself, Kurt walked away from the only man he had ever loved._

Kurt found that same crushing sensation return to his chest as the memories flitted through his mind. He wasn't proud of what he had done that day, but he knew it was the best thing for himself. It was selfish, he had come to the conclusion several days later while sitting on his unpacked boxes in his shoebox apartment, but it was necessary.

Kurt handed the taxi driver a crumpled twenty and then added an extra dollar just because he was in a good mood as he exited the vehicle, dashing into the rain for a brief moment before ducking into his apartment building. The excited hype returned to him as he punched the elevator button for the ground floor and slid inside of the poorly furnished elevator.

The cheesy elevator music did little to suppress his excitement as he bobbed up and down with anticipation. Aaron was going to be so happy, so proud of him, so relieved that he could finally pay his half of the rent.

At last, Kurt slid his room key into the slot and heaved open the thick metal door. Immediately, he was overwhelmed with the impending fragrance of roses and candle incense. He slipped inside, blinking rapidly against the dim lighting of the living room.

"Aaron?" Kurt shouted as he hung his damp coat on the kitchen chair and made his way through the apartment. A pathway of red and yellow rose petals was scattered across the crème-colored shag carpeting, leading from the kitchen to Kurt's bedroom.

Kurt smiled as he pushed open the door to his bedroom and peered inside. Aaron was sitting on top of his bed, wringing his hands together in his lap as he glanced toward his phone on the nightstand every couple of seconds.

Kurt cleared his throat. Alarmed, Aaron jumped to his feet. At the sight of his boyfriend, he straightened out his clean, white t-shirt and khakis, grinning tentatively. His shaggy blond hair hung over his light, sky blue eyes as he stepped forward and bit his lip, ducking his head in that sheepish way Kurt adored.

"I-I wanted to do something special for you, since I know how worried you were about your interview today. I thought some candles and roses would cheer you up, in case you didn't get the job." Aaron lurched suddenly, as if he were mentally chastising himself. "I-I didn't mean that I didn't think you wouldn't get the job. I mean—"

Kurt stepped forward and pressed his lips to Aaron's, reaching his arms around his neck and tangling his fingers in the soft hair that twisted into curls at the base of his neck. Aaron relaxed into the kiss, his hands resting almost hesitantly on Kurt's hips.

Kurt was tall, but Aaron was taller. He was a lanky and scrawny figure, his head nearly brushing the ceiling of every place they went, but Kurt loved the height difference. He felt so safe tucked in the crook of Aaron's gawky neck. He had only ever been with Blaine, who was short enough that Kurt had to crane his neck every time they kissed.

_Damn. _Kurt wasn't supposed to be thinking about Blaine; he was supposed to be enjoying a pleasant evening with his boyfriend after a harrowing day. Even as Aaron intertwined their fingers and lead him to the floor where a neat, picnic dinner rested, Kurt couldn't help the way his eyes flickered over to the red and yellow roses that sat in a blue vase on his dresser. And he certainly couldn't help the way his mind was thrown back to a hot summer day, when a young eighteen year old boy brought his boyfriend a bouquet of those exact same flowers and told him that he loved him.


	2. I'm a Nervous Wreck

**A/N: **Thank you so much to those who read our fic! Blaine (kurtsontop on FanFiction, Tumblr and scarvesandcoffee) and I have been super anxious to post chapter two since our publishing debut last weekend. These lyrics come from Maroon 5_'_s _Runaway. _Last week's were from _Bleeding Love_ by Leona Lewis. Important lyrics are in the bold (they're also the chapter titles) and the lyrics aren't necessarily in order; we mash them up to get the important stuff in. We post every Sunday. Tumblr and S&C: coffeebeanklaine. Enjoy!

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**Chapter Two: I'm a Nervous Wreck**

_I'm taking time to think,  
I don't think it's fair for us to,  
Turn around and say goodbye_

_I have this feeling when, _

_I finally find the words to say,_

_But I can't tell you if you turn around,  
And run away, run away. _

_**I'm a nervous wreck.**_

"Honey, don't you think you should slow down with the drinks?" Aaron asked as Kurt tipped the champagne glass backwards and downed the contents in one gulp.

Kurt grimaced and waved his boyfriend off. "It's just champagne, Aaron. God, though, I wish they had something stronger," he remarked, placing his glass back down on the table and searching over the heads of his coworkers for a waiter.

Aaron laid his hand on top of Kurt's and frowned. "The effects of alcohol are very dangerous, Kurt, and I don't want—"

Kurt rolled his eyes for what seemed like the seventh time in the past hour. "It's a party for fuck's sake, Aaron, I'm allowed to have a few drinks." When Aaron retracted his hand and looked away, blinking rapidly, Kurt sighed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you. It's a work party, babe, you know what these events do to me. Potential clients and corporate heads are here checking out the office and Isabelle gets really stressed and it's just—it's just a bad time for me, I'm sorry."

Aaron nodded and offered a watery smile, toying with the end of the silvery table cloth between his fingers. The room was a whirl of commotion. Techno music pumped through the overhead speakers as Kurt's coworkers and potential clients chattered at nearby tables. Brand new fashion designs were displayed on the walls or hung from mannequins, people stopping to gawk and pick at the glimmering fabrics.

Kurt patted Aaron's shoulder before getting up from his esteemed seat at table nine and made his way over to the mini bar Isabelle had insisted on getting. Rachel and Santana, working as part of the Spotlight Diner's new catering program, clinked glasses of their own together as Kurt strode toward them.

"What's wrong, Hummel? Your boyfriend up your ass again? Literally," Santana wanted to know, brushing her dark hair over her shoulder with a smirk.

Kurt sighed, climbing up on the bar stool. "He's just…concerned about my drinking," Kurt replied as Rachel got him another glass of champagne.

"Give Aaron a break, he's just worried," Rachel said. "It's sweet."

"Worried? More like obsessive. You know who he reminds me of, Hummel? He reminds me of that serial killer from that Stephen King movie…the one where the girl was so 'worried' about the guy that she broke both of his legs and kept him locked up in her mountain cabin. Be careful, porcelain, I wouldn't go to any deserted cabins with Aaron if I was you," Santana sneered.

Kurt watched the amber-colored bubbles in his drink fizz and pop like liquid gold as Rachel smacked Santana in the arm with her dish rag. "Don't say that—"

"Santana's right," Kurt interrupted, his stomach sinking. "I mean, not about the serial killer part, but Aaron has been getting a bit obsessive lately. I don't know, maybe we should take a break."

"Kurt, are you sure you're thinking clearly?" Rachel said with a tentative shrug. She pointed in the direction of Aaron, who looked quickly away, a scarlet blush rising to his cheeks. He had smoothed his unruly blond hair back with a dollop of gel before they had left, and was wearing a crisp black suit and baby blue tie that brought out his eyes. "You've been with Aaron for almost two and a half years now."

"Exactly," Santana interjected. "That's two and a half years too much. You're not really happy, and you haven't been since you were with the hobbit—"

"Santana!" Rachel exclaimed, eyes widening and glancing frantically towards Kurt. This was a sensitive topic for all of them. Unintentionally, Rachel and Santana had been forced to pick sides after Kurt and Blaine's nasty breakup and in turn, they had lost a friend.

"It's fine, it's fine," Kurt waved them off. "I can't just ignore Blaine's existence."

Santana rested her chin on her palm and gazed at Kurt with heavy mascara'd eyes. "To be honest, Hummel, I think breaking up with the bowtie bitch was your greatest mistake."

Kurt raised his glass to his lips, cringing at the dull burn in his throat. Santana was right, as much as it pained him to acknowledge the fact that he had mercilessly abandoned with one true love in shithole Lima, Ohio with an abusive father. He wondered if Blaine had stayed in Ohio and finished out his senior year or if he ran away and finally found help. Maybe he had followed through on their future plans of coming to New York. Maybe he was—Kurt shook his head, mentally chiding himself. He was in a committed relationship, for now at least. Was it cheating if you thought about your old boyfriend? Was it cheating if you…_missed _him?

"Earth to Hummel," Santana was saying, snapping her long, red fingernails in front of his face to catch his attention. "So what're you going to do about that sap_?_"

Before Kurt could respond, the crackling of the microphone screeched over the speakers and the flashing lights were directed towards the stage. Isabelle, dressed in her long, navy dress tapped the microphone uncertainly.

"Hello? Is this working? Ah, there we go. Good evening, everyone, I'm your host, Isabelle Wright. It is so lovely to see such a positive turn out for our twenty-first annual kick-off party! I hope you're all enjoying yourselves and the _free_ champagne distributed by our lovely Spotlight Diner caterers."

Kurt chuckled at Isabelle's dramatic gesture over to the mini-bar and hid his smirk behind the slender glass. Isabelle winked at him and he gave her a thumbs-up.

"I have a special announcement to make," Isabelle continued, "unfortunately not concerning our brand new winter fashion line. I'm sure many of you are familiar with our spectacular employee, Kurt Hummel."

Kurt's head snapped up at this, blushing furiously when everyone turned to look at him. Rachel squeezed his shoulder encouragingly. "Promotion?" she mouthed at him

Cheeks burning, Kurt licked his lips nervously. He crossed his fingers underneath the bar, his every nerve yearning for Isabelle to continue. If he got the promotion, he would get paid significantly more and that meant, hopefully, no more late nights at the diner.

"Kurt, would you come up here, please? Everybody make way for our honorary guest of the evening."

A smile danced on his lips as he made his way through the crowd, receiving enthusiastic pats on his back and anticipated glances. This was it. This was really happening. Kurt could barely contain his excitement as he climbed up the steps and stood beside his boss.

Isabelle wrapped her arm around his waist, grinning broadly as she once again raised the microphone to her lips. "Ladies and gentlemen, Kurt Hummel." As the crowd applauded and Kurt ducked his head in embarrassment, Isabelle dug between her breasts and produced a piece of paper. She uncrumpled it and began to read aloud.

"My dearest love, I write this as I watch you sleep, my hand trembling with each word that I create on the paper—" wait, what?, "—It is not from nerves, but rather from the visions of our future together flitting through my mind." Kurt's eyes widened. This was certainly not a promotion, in fact, it wasn't even something Isabelle would write at all. Who even used cliché dialect like 'dearest love' and 'flitting'? And then, with the painful seizing of his heart, it dawned on him. Aaron. Instantly, his eyes locked with his boyfriend's. He was swaying back and forth, gnawing anxiously on his lips as he watched Isabelle continue.

"I have loved you since the moment I met you, that one night so long ago in the Brewed Awakenings café on thirty-fourth street. You are the most beautiful, the most considerate, the most talented man I have ever met." At this point, Isabelle lowered the paper and Kurt saw tears glimmering in her cocoa brown eyes. Kurt swallowed hard, wanting nothing more than to dive in a deep, dark hole and never come out. Or rather, Kurt wanted to push _Aaron_ into a deep, dark hole. How could he do this to him?! Now? In front of all these people?

"Every time I look into your gorgeous blue-green eyes, all I can think about is all the times we have had together and all the times we will have together. Kurt Elizabeth Hummel, I have said it a million times before and I will continue to say it even after we have both left this earth; I love you." Aaron had in fact said that he loved Kurt every minute of every day that they spent together, so much that it had lost meaning. Rachel and Santana were staring at him, mortified, from the bar. Hadn't it just been two minutes ago that he said he was debating breaking up with Aaron and now this?

"Isn't it always said that opposites attract? That negatives and positives go together like peas in a pod? Well, Kurt, you are my positive force; my opposite; my one true love." Isabelle paused, her voice choking up as she wiped a tear away and the crowd released a round of "aw"s. Anger swelled up inside Kurt like a massive wave breaking over a rocky shore. Why was this happening to him? He knew Aaron was timid, but was he really so much of a pussy that he couldn't even recite his proposal speech himself?

"I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want to stand at the altar with you beside me and slide a ring on to your finger, sealing our love in a simple gold band for all of eternity. I want to see you excel in your career, I want to see you playing with our children, I want to spend our last moments together in our rocking chairs in sunny old Iowa or wherever we may be, staring endlessly into each other's eyes." This couldn't be happening. Kurt couldn't breathe, the world around him spinning as his legs shook beneath him. There were just so many eyes on him, watching, waiting, evaluating.

Isabelle turned until she was facing him, her hands shaking as she held the paper up. "I'm certain you know what I am next going to say, or rather, write, and I am certain I know what you are going to say. So Kurt Hummel, my boyfriend, my love—" no, no, no. This wasn't right, it couldn't be. "—will you—" He couldn't say no, there were so many people who would hate him. But god damn it, he wasn't about to spend the rest of his life with a man who was too cowardly to even fucking propose. "—marry—" His entire world crashed down around him, drowning him in thoughts of their future together, but they weren't good images like Aaron apparently had. Didn't they talk about this? Didn't Kurt say he didn't want to get married until he had conquered the peak of his career? This was not a relationship, this was not communication, this was not _right._ "—me?"

It was done. The words had left Isabelle's mouth and Aaron's paper, out in the room for everyone to gasp at. Everything was down the drain. "Yes." He barely even registered the word leaving his lips as the room erupted in cheers. Isabelle embraced him, but he could only feel beads of sweat racing down his temple.

"I—I—" he tried to say, tried to take back his agreement, but it was too late. There were so many people around him, so many strangers just wanting to congratulate him on selling his life away to a pussy. He had to get out of there, had to get some air, something; anything.

Kurt hurried off the stage, his feet flying over the carpet, and pushed through the crowd. People clapped him on the back and grabbed at his arms, but he wriggled out of their grasps and dashed through the elevator doors.

"Kurt!" he heard Rachel cry. "Kurt, wait!" Her face appeared between the sliding metal doors, flushed and concerned. She opened her mouth to speak, but the doors shut with a _clang._

Kurt slid down the wall as cheesy elevator music chimed over unseen speakers, placing his head between his knees and sucking in deep breaths. It was all over.


	3. Future's Finished, There It Went

**A/N: **Thank you, thank you, _thank you_ to everyone who read our fics and reviewed! We love reading your reactions to it. Blaine (kurtsontop) was so kind as to let us update today, but the rest of our updates will remain on Sunday until further notice. This is probably my favourite chapter as of late and it's super long so hopefully you will enjoy it! This chapter's lyrics are from _Bad Girlfriend _by Theory of a Deadman.

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**Chapter Three:**

_Pull the trigger, _

**_Future's finished, there it went,_**

_Savings gone and money spent._

_I look around and all I see,_

_Is no good, bad and ugly._

_"K-Kurt? Hi, Kurt, it's Aaron. But you already know that because you have caller ID…Anyways, where are you? I've called a hundred times and you're not picking up and I really don't know what to think…Please answer, Kurt, I love you. I want to celebrate our engagement right. You're not mad, are you? God, please don't be mad, just…Just please come home. I'll be here waiting, okay? I-I'm going to hang up now." _

Kurt lowered his phone with a sigh. There were eleven text messages, sixteen voicemails and twenty-three missed calls, all from Aaron Morgen. His boyfriend. His _fiancé. _Even thinking the word put a foul taste in his mouth and Kurt lowered the phone, placing it face down on the sticky surface of the bar.

It was all just so stupid. Kurt wasn't sure if he was angrier with himself for saying yes and then running out like that or Aaron for conducting the whole damn thing in the first place. After hailing a taxi and telling the driver to take him the only place he knew Aaron wouldn't look—Babylon, New York City's supreme gay bar—Kurt had run into two of his peers from NYADA's European fashion class, who had then bought him a round of drinks and uttered half-drunken words of sympathy.

Kurt was on his fourth daiquiri now and the lyric-less techno music blasting from the DJ's speakers, shaking the dance floor like an unseen heartbeat was starting to sound like frenzied goat in his ears. The dark room of the club pulsated with thick, swirling fog and stuttering strobe lights that illuminated various couples grinding on the dance floor. Strippers performed routines on the center stage in the middle of the room, twirling around on their poles in their exotic costumes.

"Hey, stop worrying," Chris said, one of Kurt's classmates. He was tall, nearly as tall as Aaron, with rust-colored hair and a splash of freckles across his nose. "You came to Babylon to get away from that boyfriend of yours, didn't you? Just relax."

Kurt nodded reluctantly, but all he could focus on was the impending weight of the engagement ring he had hurriedly shoved on his finger without so much as glancing at it. "I know. It's just that I wasn't expecting it at all, you know? We've talked about getting married, but I've told him several times that I'm not ready. Relationships are about communication. He should've fucking told me," Kurt said, his voice rising in pitch with every word.

"Just because you're engaged doesn't mean you have to get married now," Chris assured him.

Kurt shook his head, his shoulders rising and falling wearily. "I was going to break up with him tonight," he murmured. Suddenly, he wanted to cry and scream and throw up at the same time. His relationship with Aaron felt like a tight noose around his neck, cutting of his access to oxygen with every sent text and delivered call.

"God, you're so tense," Darren slurred. His hair was streaked with teal and hot pink and there was thick rim of gold eyeliner underneath his cocoa-colored eyes. He tipped one of the lime tequila shot glasses back without flinching and sat back, grinning triumphantly. "You know what you need, Mr. Kurt Hummel. You need…a dance party! You have to forget all about that Aaron asshole. Come on!" Darren hopped off the bar stool excitedly, motioning in earnest toward the dance floor.

Kurt looked to Chris, who simply shrugged and said, "It can't hurt to let go every once and a while."

Kurt looked down at the remaining shot glass. It had been years since Kurt had actually been to a gay club. Aaron had preferred to stay home and play scrabble by the fire or cuddle while watching _Project Runway _on their date nights and Kurt had conceded without protest. _But Aaron's _not_ here,_ Kurt thought bitterly, his gaze flickering from the glass to Darren and Chris who both displayed patient smiles.

He took a deep breath. "This is for you, Aaron," he whispered before tipping it back and downing the amber liquid in a single swallow.

Darren let out an enthusiastic whoop and snatched Kurt's wrist tugging him along behind him. Kurt barely had a second to wonder if he had made the wrong decision, if he should just turn around and go back to his safe, worrisome boyfriend, before he was submerged in the throbbing, sweaty crowd. Everything smelled like hot bodies on bodies, like filthy sex and open-mouthed kisses and public blowjobs.

Kurt wrinkled his nose in disgust as Darren made a beeline for a designated spot directly in the middle of the dance floor. Darren paused, glanced around and then began to dance, swiveling his hips and shimmying his shoulders with hooded eyes.

Chris appeared behind him, his hand intertwined with a tall, lanky man with broad shoulders and a slender waist tucked into a flattering royal purple button-down. He had shaggy, dark hair and matching eyes that regarded Kurt like he was a piece of meat.

"Kurt, this is Jack," Chris yelled as Katy Perry's _Peacock _began thundering throughout the room.

"Mmm, Kurt," Jack purred, releasing Chris' hand and prowling around Kurt like a cocky lion. "What a pretty boy. C'mon, dance with me."

Before he could protest, Jack put his hands on Kurt's waist and began swaying them in time to the music. Awkwardly, Kurt looped his arms around Jack's neck and blushed. Jack cocked an eyebrow, licking his perfectly shaped lips. "This place isn't really your forte, is it?" he asked.

Kurt shook his head. "No. I mean—I don't know. I was—am—in a relationship with a guy who really hated clubs."

"Ah." Jack nodded knowingly, his tall frame projecting a shadow over Kurt. "So you're _that _kind of guy."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you let your boyfriend decide everything. If he doesn't want to go to a club, then you stay home like a good little housewife. What a pitiful relationship."

Kurt's jaw tightened angrily and he stepped away from the man. "I don't even know you," he snapped. "What right do you have to make judgments about my life?"

"Look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it." Once more, he stepped closer until their hips were almost touching and their chests brushed. "You need to let go. Let go of whatever's holding you back and just have a good time. You're allowed to do that, you know. Your boyfriend isn't here right now to breathe down your neck. Just…Close your eyes and listen."

Kurt could smell beer on Jack's breath, his glistening lips so close he could nearly taste them. He swallowed hard, tasting the sour tequila in the back of his throat, and allowed his eyes to slide closed. The buzz of the alcohol began to fall across his senses as his entire body began to tingle electrically. _Let go, _Jack had said. _Just let go. _Something inside of Kurt snapped like a barrier being broken down as he let the rhythm of the music in for the first time in years. This was who he was now; someone who he'd always been, suppressed by Lima and Aaron. He was a free spirit, drifting like a petal on the currents of the wind, watching and waiting and just experiencing the city of dreams.

His eyes flew open to take in Jack's chiseled, smirking face. Kurt's hips began to move to a beat of their own accord, his arms reaching up once again and cupping Jack's face. He was Kurt Hummel, damn it, and he was going to let go. He tilted his head forward and their lips met. Jack tasted like beer and sweat and just _man, _so unlike the tender delicacy of Aaron's lips.

Jack laughed as they pulled back, pressing their hips together until Kurt could feel the pressure of his dick straining through his tight jeans. "Now _that's _letting go."

Gradually, as the drunken effects of the alcohol continued to catch up to Kurt, the entire world became a massive blur of lips on lips and firm hands groping his ass and a pounding beat in his ears and sweat beading down his brow and fingers carding through his hair and bright, flashing lights and too-loud music and someone was sucking at his neck—_god, that felt good—_and Jack was pushing his dress shirt up his torso and flicking at the shell of his ear and—no. No, this was _wrong._

Kurt pulled away suddenly, his chest heaving with every intake of the muggy air that surrounded him like a wool blanket. He turned around without uttering an explanation to the astounded Jack and pushed through the crowd. No, no, this wasn't him. He wasn't someone who _cheated_ on his boyfriend, despite how mad he's been. _Shit, shit, shit. _

Kurt found his phone at the bar and flipped open the screen, the harsh light burning his eyes as he found Rachel's number and dialed it frantically. There were two rings—three—_just fucking pick up, Rachel_—five—

"Hello? Kurt? Where the hell are you?"

"Rachel." Kurt exhaled in relief. "I'm at Babylon. Can you please come pick me up? I did something awful, really awful and…fuck."

He could hear the rustle of sheets from the other side of the phone. "What are you doing at Babylon? After you just ran out, Santana and I looked everywhere for you. God, Kurt, we were so worried. Aaron's a wreck."

Kurt's features twisted into a scowl. "I know and I'm sorry. Please come pick me up."

"It's two twenty in the morning, Kurt! I'll come and get you, but you're paying the hospital bills if I get raped by some—some sex-hungry homeless man, okay? Just stay where you are and I'll be there in a couple of minutes."

Kurt shoved his phone in his pocket and placed his head in his hands, groaning. Perhaps he had let go too much. How was he even going to explain all of this to Aaron? Did he even want to talk to Aaron at all?

Suddenly, the club erupted in simultaneous laughter. Kurt jolted up, desperately hoping Darren wasn't stripping. What he saw instead was a short, curly-haired man up on stage. His lips were positively glued to one of the stripper's, his hands dancing over the black leather of his skimpy attire.

The shorter man stepped back, a coy, drunken smile playing on his lips, and Kurt could see who it was. _Blaine_. He then abruptly toppled over the edge of the stage and went crashing onto the stone floor of the club.

Kurt was dashing through the crowd without even remembering getting up from the chair and he knelt down at Blaine's side. He looked exactly the same as he had four years ago, with disheveled dark curls and flawless olive skin and plump, endlessly kissable lips and hazel eyes that sparkled in the light. _Blaine._

Blaine sat up, blinking furiously like he had something in his eye, and then his gaze fell on Kurt. Kurt had expected him to gasp in recognition or cry out in surprise, but instead, his lips curved into a dopey smile. "Whoa, how hard did I hit my head?"

"Blaine—" the word still tasted so familiar on his lips, like Juicy Fruit bubble gum, "—you're still conscious."

"How are you even _real? _How have we never met before? Oh, my god, you're so pretty." Blaine reached up to cup Kurt's jaw, his finger grazing over the slope of his cheekbone.

Kurt pulled away, his heart crumbling inside of his chest. _He doesn't remember me._ "Jesus, you really hit your head, didn't you?" He looped his arm around the back of his waist and helped Blaine to his feet. He started towards the bar, casting a glance over his shoulder to make sure Blaine was still standing. "Come on, let's go get some ice for that head."

"Man, you have a _great ass_," Blaine slurred.

Kurt rolled his eyes, smirking as he easily fell back into the routine of their old banter. "Eyes on your own paper, shorty."

"Hey! I'm not short, I'm—"

"Fun-sized?" It was like Kurt's past twenty-four hours had disappeared and all he could focus on was Blaine. It had been so long since they'd seen each other, and yet everything with him felt so natural.

They arrived at the bar and he helped Blaine up onto the bar stool before beckoning over the bartender and asking him for an ice pack. "How did you know what I was going to say? Are you a mind reader? Shit, I hope you aren't because I've been thinking about doing some positively sinful things to that behind of yours," Blaine said, allowing his eyes to roam shamelessly over Kurt's body.

Under the faint blue hue of the bar light, Kurt could see how bloodshot his eyes were and how utterly exhausted he looked. His shirt was stained with what looked like beer and his lips were chapped. Kurt's heart ached to wrap him up in a tight hug and just murmur sweet nothings into his ear, but this wasn't senior year in quiet little Ohio; this was two thirty on a Friday night in a gay bar.

He cleared his throat, pressing the provided ice back to Blaine's forehead where a nasty, plum-colored bruise was beginning to form. "You've said it before."

"I've always wanted to mess around with a married man," Blaine remarked, his eyes glued to the ring on Kurt's finger.

Kurt blushed, covering his embarrassment with a tentative smirk. "We will be doing no 'messing around'," he replied, but every nerve in his body was yearning for Blaine's touch.

"So," Blaine said, almost conversationally, "what's your name, oh married man? Because why else would you be here at a _gay bar_ if you were perfectly happy with your husband?" Kurt flinched. "Ooh, fiancé? What, did he propose and you said yes because he had a nice dick and now you're realizing that he doesn't know how to use it?"

Kurt was taken aback. Surely this couldn't be his old ex-boyfriend from four years ago, the same man who had laid with him in bed and played 'connect the dots' with his freckles on his back; the same man who had held his hands and told him everything was going to be alright before brushing away his tears with his soft lips; the same man who never, ever cursed or talked about sex in such explicit ways.

"You know my name, Blaine," Kurt whispered finally, wondering if Blaine had even heard what he had said over the deafening thump of the music.

Blaine paled suddenly, his face draining of color as his eyes widened. His bottom lip trembled as he lowered the ice pack from his temple, hands shaking slightly. This was it. He had remembered. "Kurt…" His name sounded like acid on Blaine's tongue. "Why are you _here?"_

Kurt looked away. He would not cry. He would not cry. "I could ask you the same question."

"Because this is what I _do. _This is all I have, Kurt." There was something in his voice that chilled the blood in Kurt's veins. He couldn't quite put a name to it; pain? Agony? Regret? Insistence?

"You don't need to do…this, Blaine," Kurt said. A lump swelled in his throat, but he swallowed it down persistently. Blaine needed him. Oh, god, this was all his fault. "I'm so sorry that you're here, I'm sorry you're—"

"That I'm what? A fuck-up? Because yes, Kurt, actually, I do need to do this. But you wouldn't know, would you?" Blaine's voice was icy cold but he glare burned straight through Kurt's very existence.

"I'm so sorry, Blaine, I really am." His voice broke, sounding so weak and vulnerable out in the heated air of the club. He wondered what Blaine would've been like if Kurt hadn't so heartlessly abandoned him in Lima with his abusive father. Surely he wouldn't be here, making out with strippers and so drunk off his ass that he couldn't even remember his old boyfriend. He reached up and dragged his fingers through his hair, wanting nothing more than to rip open his skull and wash all the tantalizing thoughts from his mind.

"Wait. You're…Kurt, please don't tell me you're married already. You're not thirty yet. You had _plans._ What happened to graduating from NYADA? What happened to getting on Broadway and playing Angel in _RENT?_"

Kurt laughed, because it was the only way he could keep from bursting into tears. "Plans change, Blaine. People change," he said bitterly.

Blaine paused, his skin so white it looked like parchment. Kurt thought for a second he was going to start screaming, but then an eerily calm spell spread over Blaine's features and he straightened himself. "I really hope he treats you right. If not, I'll break his fucking legs."

Kurt inhaled sharply, alarmed at the sudden venom in his tone. Before he could react, Blaine was standing up and flying towards the exit without even glancing behind him. "Blaine!" he yelled desperately. "Blaine! Come back!"

The emergency exit door closed with a violent _bang. _Kurt wracked his brain for any explanation for everything that had just happened, some sort of reason for the way Blaine had looked and acted, but his mind was a blank slate.

"It's all my fault," he said softly, his bottom lip quivering as the realization dawned on him. "Fuck, it's all my fault."


	4. On Sleepless Roads the Sleepless Go

**A/N: **Thank you so much to everyone who continues to read and review throughout every weekly post! Don't forget to read Blaine's POV (_Stained Glass) _at my co-author's account (kurtsontop). The song and title from this chapter come from _Hear You Me_ by Jimmy Eat World. We update every Sunday! Happy late Christmas and happy early New Year! Enjoy.

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**Chapter Four:**

_So what would you think of me now?_

_So lucky, so strong, so proud._

_Hear you me, my friends,_

**_On sleepless roads the sleepless go._**

_ Fireworks streaked across the dark night sky like glittering rainbow ribbons, bursting in a deafening explosion that showered the observers in flaming tears. Below, the murky Ohio Lake drank up the burning flakes that landed on the glassy surface and reflected the bright scene above. Motorboats rocked gently atop the waves while couples cheered and friends raised their drinks in salute to the fireworks._

_ Blaine tucked his head into Kurt's neck, shivering slightly in the brisk wind that ruffled through their damp swim shorts. On the back deck, Mike manned the wheel while Tina sat on his lap and snapped pictures of the fireworks with her phone. Finn and Rachel weren't even paying attention to the fantastic display and instead chose to make out on top of a life vest stack._

_ "It's so beautiful," Kurt remarked. _

_ "It's so _loud,"_ Blaine grumbled. _

_ Smirking, Kurt shifted to wrap his arm around Blaine's shuddering shoulders. Mike's family speedboat swayed almost rhythmically, the faux rubber seat pad beneath them squeaking with every fall and rise of the waves. "It's the Fourth of July, B. America's birthday. If you ask me, the USA has the most badass birthday parties ever."_

_ Kurt could feel Blaine's lips curve up into a smile against his shoulder. "I hope you know I now expect fireworks at my birthday party," Blaine said. _

_ "Oh, is that right?" _

_ Blaine sat up, sweeping his curls back. Droplets of lake water glistened on his face, flashing red, blue, gold. "Oh, yeah. Also elephants, a carousel, and seventeen tiny chipmunks all in bowties."_

_ Kurt snorted. "What, no Jersey Shore strippers who know the entire 'Sistas' routine from _White Christmas_?" _

_ "Nope. All I need is you." _

_ "You're a dork," Kurt replied, bumping his shoulder playfully against his boyfriend's. The American flag exploded across the sky, and people on nearby boats released enthusiastic shrieks. _

_ "Although it would be nice if you could dress up in one of those tiny mankinis with little bowties—" _

_ Kurt's jaw dropped in mock astonishment. He flipped Blaine over, pinning his arms against the rubber seat and straddling his waist. Blaine licked his lips, the apples of his cheeks flushed a dark scarlet as he stared up in awe at Kurt. "There is no way—" Kurt panted, "—I will ever—" His chestnut hair flopped down over his forehead, "—wear a_ mankini_—" Blaine was full on laughing now, "—with little bowties."_

_ His chest heaving with laughter, Blaine reached up and cupped Kurt's face with freezing fingers. "Don't be so sure about that." With that, Blaine wrapped his legs around Kurt's waist and flipped them over the side of the boat, crashing into the frigid water with a splash!_

_ Kurt broke through the surface, gasping for air and flailing in the direction of the boat. He grasped for the side, slipping and fell once again into the lake. "You're a dick!" he exclaimed furiously. _

_ "I guess that's a good thing," Blaine replied smarmily. _

_ Kurt screeched in mock anger and paddled towards his boyfriend, tackling him and sending up a spray of water. "I cannot believe you just pushed me into a disgusting, polluted Ohio lake, you absolute jerk! Can you imagine what this is going to do to my hair? I wouldn't be surprised if it started glowing—" _

_ Blaine cupped his face, grinning in that way that made Kurt fall a little bit more in love with him each time he did it. His eyes were so green. Green in a way that was different from the lake water or the green of the trimmed pine trees that bordered the area or the electric green of his swim shorts; it was the kind of green that you climb hundred of frosted mountains just to see or the green of a brand new piece of mint gum or the green that appears after the snow of a long and hard winter melts. _

_ Kurt's gaze travelled down to his lips, light pink and dotted with crystalloid water droplets. "You're lucky I love you," he murmured as the tips of their noses bumped together. _

_ The corners of his lips twitched up into a smile. "I really am." _

_ Around them, smoking shreds from the latest firework burned blazing trails like the outstretched branches of a weeping willow, encasing the couple in their own little private world. "Happy Fourth of July." _

Kurt was going to puke. He shifted in his bed, rolling over onto his side and squeezing his eyes shut in a desperate effort to block out the glaring light flooding through his blinds. His head was pounding agonizingly, his jeans scratching roughly against his thighs atop his blue satin comforter. Apparently he had neglected to change clothes last night before flopping face down on his bed and sobbing himself to sleep.

"You're awake."

Kurt jolted upright, his stomach protesting as bile rose up in the back of his throat. Aaron was holding out a glass of ice water and two Advil. He wore a crumpled t-shirt and sweat pants, his blond hair sticking up in the back and dark circles hanging underneath his unsympathetic eyes. "Aaron."

He watched as Kurt downed the Advil and water in one gulp and then looked down to his clasped hands. "You didn't get home until three last night," he said softly.

Kurt gnawed the inside of his cheek. He knew this would come. "Look, I'm sorry. I just needed some space." Aaron sat down on the edge of his bed, dragging his fingers through his hair. "I wasn't expecting that, Aaron, I wasn't ready."

Aaron swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing as he staring determinedly at the far wall. "Did you mean to say yes?" he asked hurriedly as if he wanted nothing more than to get the words off his tongue.

Kurt sighed. _No,_ he wanted to say. _No, I didn't. I don't want to marry you. _"Of course I did," he replied finally. He reached forward and took Aaron's trembling hands. "I was just…surprised, that's all."

Aaron's baby blue eyes were glistening with tears. He offered a watery smile and tightened his grasp on Kurt. "I love you."

As the tears spilled down over the slope of Aaron's cheeks, Kurt was thrown back into a flitting memory from the night before. Too-loud music screaming in his ears, the lingering taste of tequila on his tongue, sweating trickling down his temple and sliding down his spine, and green. Green eyes so bright and lively like they had been that Fourth of July so long ago. And then…And then all the life had been sucked right out the moment he had seen that damned ring on Kurt's finger and his hands had begun to shake and he wouldn't look at Kurt and then he was gone as quickly as he had appeared.

Kurt's fingernails bit into his palm as he plastered a smile on his face. _All my fault. _"I have to get ready for school. I have—I have class today."

Aaron kissed his cheek and helped him to his feet. "I'm really glad we could talk this out, Kurt. Oprah says no relationship is truly a relationship if they don't endure a bumpy road every once and a while." Kurt was definitely going to puke.

He squeezed his fiancé's hands and ducked into the bathroom for a quick shower. Scalding water tricked down over his muscles and soaked his hair, soothing his aching limbs. After dressing, Kurt stood in front of the mirror to examine his reflection. The blotchy purple sphere of a hickey had begun to form on his collar bone and his skin was tinged green. He looked like pure shit. But Blaine had looked worse.

How could he have been so heartless? How could he have let the love of his life become such a monster? He had to fix this. He _had_ too. It was up to him now.

"So what happened last night? I tried to ask you in the car but you were too upset to answer." The subway car lurched, throwing Kurt against the rusted metal pole and tossing Rachel into the filthy window.

Kurt looked down at his shoes, the toes dusted with light snow. "I saw him."

Rachel cocked an eyebrow, exasperated. "Well, Jesus, Kurt, could you be more vague? Who did you see? And why were you at Babylon? I thought that was the place guys went to cheat on their boyfriends."

Kurt frowned. "That's not why I went there, Rach."

"I guess that's also why you're wearing a turtle neck?"

He rolled his eyes and pushed at her shoulder playfully. "I got a little drunk, okay? But that's not the point. I saw _him, _Rachel. I saw Blaine."

Rachel paled. For a moment, she just stared at him, wide-eyed, and then she looked down to adjust her apple red cardigan. "Oh, my god."

"He looked so bad." Kurt's voice cracked. "He was cursing and so drunk he didn't even recognize me." She didn't reply. "I have to see him again. I have to fix him."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Rachel whispered above the high-pitched screeching of un-oiled train wheels on frozen track.

"I _loved_ him and if I have any hopes of moving on with Aaron, I have to let go of Blaine," Kurt said. He sounded a lot stronger than he felt, his heart shattering inside his chest like a frail snow globe. "It's my fault that he's like this. If I hadn't left…"

"You had to break up with him, Kurt. People get over lost love, it's a part of life. You can't blame yourself for something that was necessary to your survival." Of course. Rachel didn't know about the abuse. No one had, except for Kurt; and Kurt had left him all alone. He nodded solemnly, fighting off tears that threatened to overflow.

"Excuse me, are you talking about Blaine Anderson?" Kurt whirled around to face a short man with purple-streaked hair and a sparkling orange boa. "Sorry, I couldn't help but overhear."

Kurt cleared his throat. "Um, yes. Yes, we were."

The man chuckled, maintaining his balance effortlessly as the subway cart lurched once again. "He's a good bang."

Rachel inhaled sharply. "I'm sorry, you are…?"

"Lorenzo. I see Blaine around a lot; block parties and bathhouses and what not. Cute kid," he responded, inspecting his gaudy black nails.

Kurt's mouth tasted like burnt rubber. "Do you know where I might find him?"

"Why, looking for a free blowjob? Or some heroin? He might be at that piano bar on thirty-first street, though I heard he got fired. Or maybe Babylon?"

"I—I saw him there recently. I was hoping to get in touch with him again. Do you have an address?"

Lorenzo burst out laughing. "An address? That little kid is always moving, sleeping around or huddled up in some crack house. But you could check NYU. He's got some…special connections there."

He wasn't quite sure how to answer, so he nodded politely and turned back to Rachel, who had gone so pale she looked like the new fallen November snow that littered the streets. "Is he talking about the same person? Blaine? _Our _Blaine? _Crack houses?" _

Kurt was nauseous. "I have to go to New York University. I _have _to find him. If I don't, I'll—I'll—"

Rachel rested her hand on his shoulder. "Just try not to break your own heart too hard."

The university was alive with the bustle of students, clutching books to their chests and chattering eagerly to one another. Above, the sky danced with vibrant snow flurries emanating from a stony grey sky. Kurt had left NYADA after his first class, his stomach knotting too tight to ignore and caught the next train to New York University. After conversing with the secretary at the information desk and convincing the meek redhead that he was a concerned brother, he retracted Blaine's class schedule. According to the half-damp paper clutched in his hand, Blaine had gotten released from his last class approximately twenty-one minutes ago. If Kurt could catch him in time, maybe he could beg Blaine to join him for a cup of coffee or go for a walk in Central Park.

Kurt raced around a nearby corner, skidding on ice and slamming his shoulder against a brick wall. His entire body felt numb from the cold, his fingers swollen red and the tip of his nose glowing a bright maroon, but he didn't care. All that mattered was finding Blaine.

Room 221. This was it. Throwing open the classroom door, Kurt darted into the room, immediately embraced by a thick cloud of warmth. The room smelled like sweat and hormones, reminding Kurt of the hallways of McKinley High. Posters of various grammatical theories and famous novels were tacked up on the flesh-colored walls. There was not a soul in sight, causing Kurt's chest to contract painfully. Fuck. He'd missed him again.

_The subway. _Kurt's boots squeaked on the pavement as he dodged pedestrians and angry New Yorkers who gave him the middle finger. The brisk air slapped Kurt in the face like the cool slushies he had endured so many times, but he pushed through and tumbled his way down the stairs into the musky railway.

He searched desperately over the heads of people purchasing tickets and those boarding the train and even peered through the misted window panes for that one familiar face. His heart sank in defeat as he realized there was no way in hell he would be able to find Blaine today. Tomorrow, he would try again tomorrow. It was Monday; surely he could catch Blaine on one of the other four days of the week.

He turned, shoulders hunched and feet dragging on the sidewalk. Standing out amidst the dozens of other heads was a proud mop of dark curls. Kurt straightened up, pushing through the crowd to get a better view. Blaine was striding purposefully towards the train, his head ducked and his curls dusted with powdery snow.

"Blaine! Blaine!" he called out, throat sore from the impending cold. Blaine didn't seem to hear him, boarding the train and finding a seat, staring down at his hands distractedly.

Kurt shoved his way to the ticket voucher, who frowned at him and held out a hand for the ticket he didn't have. "Please let me through, I have to get on that train!" he cried in earnest, but the elderly man only shook his head.

"No ticket, no train, buster," he replied icily.

The subway train's whistle screamed through the air as the wheels began to turn. He'd lost him again. Kurt watched the vehicle until the last car had disappeared into the endless black tunnel, his lungs contracting with every breath. He'd been so close.

And yet so far.


	5. A Lover on the Left

**A/N:** Every week Blaine (kurtsontop) and I just squeal over all of your lovely reviews! We really appreciate all of you taking the time to read our fics. If you haven't read Blaine's POV (_Stained Glass), _you may not be able to fully understand the significance of some characters introduced this chapter (IE Mr. Ellis and Maeve), so you may want to read it because it's the best. The song used this chapter is _Casual Affair _by Panic! At the Disco. We update every Sunday! Please enjoy.

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**Chapter Five: **

_Break involuntary ties,  
A secret so the spies  
Could never find us out._

_Stay for as long as you have time,  
So the mess that we'll become,  
Leaves something to talk about._

_**A lover on the left.**_

Emilia and Oscar Morgen couldn't look more like their son if they tried. Emilia was a slender woman with frail, composed features and a waterfall of honey-golden hair that cascaded over her shoulders. She wore a dark navy dress that brought out the sapphire of her baby blue eyes and thick silver bracelets that jingled when she raised the champagne glass to her bright red lips. Oscar had the same chiseled jaw line that Aaron inherited, with a tuft of graying blond hair atop his head and cool eyes like hard glass.

Kurt had only met with them twice before. The first was two months after they'd starting dating, when Emilia and Oscar had flown out to meet Kurt and attend Aaron's sophomore graduation from the New York School of Law. The second was last Christmas, when Emilia had positively insisted they fly to Aaron's quaint childhood home in Iowa. Both of them were kind, accepting lawyers who welcomed Kurt into their family without a moment's hesitation.

After Aaron had eagerly called them and told them about the engagement, they had immediately dropped whatever prestigious case they had been working on and taken a private jet out to congratulate them. Arriving only an hour ago, the Morgens had wasted no time in tracking down the most expensive restaurant in New York City and dragging along their son and Kurt for some celebratory wine and salmon.

"I was just so pleased to hear about the engagement," Emilia said fondly for what seemed like the tenth time. "There's so much to prepare for the wedding. When do you think you'd like to have it? I think June would be a magnificent time; everyone will be off of work and on summer break, but it's early enough for them not to be on vacation. And summer weddings are just _so_ glamorous."

Aaron squeezed Kurt's hand under the table and Kurt plastered an enthusiastic smile on his face. The feeling of nausea that had settled in his stomach the moment he put on the ring had remained throughout the past couple of days and talk of the wedding only increased the feeling. He didn't want to be here, the weight of the engagement ring strangling his finger while his fiancé sat oblivious to his emotions and his future mother-in-law planned out their wedding.

"I think June would be the perfect time, mother," Aaron continued, flashing Kurt a confident grin. "That would give us a good amount of time to plans since there is a lot to do."

Emilia's bleach white teeth sparkled under the harsh light of the restaurant as she beamed broadly. "Oh, darling, don't worry. Your father and I know the most _amazing_ wedding planner, don't we, dear?"

Oscar, clearly preoccupied by some fascinating text message on his phone, grunted in acknowledgement. Kurt liked Mr. Morgen. He seemed almost less excited about the wedding than Kurt.

"I'll give her your number. She really is fabulous." Emilia glanced toward Kurt. "How are you, honey? You haven't spoken a word all night. Something wrong with the salmon?"

Kurt cleared his throat and sat up straighter. "Oh, no, it's great, thanks. I'm just a bit worn out from work." He loved acting. He was attending the New York Academy of Dramatic Arts for fuck sake. He could at least act like he was enjoying the dinner for a few hours before going home and collapsing in a pile of blankets to cry himself to sleep for the fifth time in a row.

"And how is work going for you? Aaron told us that's where he proposed!" Emilia clasped her hands together excitedly.

Kurt swallowed with difficulty, staring down at the untouched fish on his plate. "The business is blooming for sure," he said conversationally, gaze still fixated downward. He couldn't have felt more uncomfortable if he tried. "We just released a new line of winter clothing."

"That's marvelous." Emilia tipped her wine glass back and swallowed the contents elegantly. "Speaking of clothing, what do you think you'll do for the tuxedos? I understand black is the classic color but two black tuxedos is a bit tacky, don't you think, Aaron dear?"

Kurt tuned out of the conversation as Aaron began to answer. Brigadette's was an expensive restaurant off Forty-Fourth Street. They had fine bottles of aged wine on every wall, flashing glimmering amber, sparkling gold and vibrant red in the ever-changing blink of the lights. The bar was crowded with tall women in cocktail dresses and suited men with arms around their waists. Waiters bustled throughout the large dining room supporting trays of steaming platters priced entirely too expensively. Shimmering decorative spheres hung down from the ceiling, swaying every time the glass entrance doors were opened and new guests swooped in to beg for a reservation.

It was drastically different from the Spotlight Diner and Kurt found himself longing for the too-loud Broadway music and the twirling dancers and array of fried foods. He _missed _the crappy Spotlight Diner and he _missed_ being in a loose relationship with a man who he never intended to marry and he _missed _feeling free.

Kurt caught sight of a man sitting at the table across from them. He was grasping the hand of a gorgeous redhead and talking with a sparkle of affection in his bright green eyes. A mop of dark curls rested atop his head. They were almost the right shade, almost the right eye color, almost the same height, Kurt thought as he chewed the inside of his lip. He could've been Blaine if his hair had been just a tinge darker, like the endless depths of the ocean; if his eyes had been dotted with gold flakes; if he had been the perfect height to slide underneath Kurt's chin like a missing puzzle piece.

"Kurt?" Aaron was asking. Kurt jerked back to his fiancé, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

"I'm just going to run to the bathroom," he murmured before pushing back his chair and fleeing from the table. He burst through the men's bathroom doors and stumbled into the sink, clutching the polished white marble with trembling hands.

Tentatively, Kurt looked up at his reflection. He didn't look anything like himself. Rings of exhaustion circled his tear-filled eyes, there were unattractive wrinkles above his brow, his chestnut hair was disheveled and there was a zit—a _zit_—on his chin. Kurt bowed his head, inhaling deeply. What the fuck had happened to him? He'd dealt with the death of his mother, merciless high school bullies, ruthless college applications, overbearing roommates, and countless rejections but he couldn't deal with one simple engagement? No. That was not Kurt Elizabeth Hummel. He always stood back up, no matter what the conflict, and this situation was no different.

He would marry Aaron because it was the right thing to do, because they were perfect for each other, everyone said so, and he would do so willingly because _that's _Kurt Elizabeth Hummel. All he needed to do was…let go of Blaine. Yes, that was it. If he could just fix this whole damn situation, make Blaine see what he was doing and go to rehab, then he would feel the way he was supposed to about this wedding.

Kurt glanced back up and displayed a confident smile at his reflection. "Kurt Morgen," he said loudly. "Kurt Morgen, Kurt Morgen, Kurt Morgen." It sounded less and less bad the more he said it. "Kurt Morgen."

He was going to catch him this time. Kurt leaned against the doorframe of Mr. Ellis's English class exactly nine minutes before it was supposed to start. Students flooded into the classroom, tossing Kurt curious glances as he gave each one the once-over. As soon as the mob of students began to dissipate, he tapped out a quick text to Aaron on his phone, assuring him that he would be home in time for dinner, and resumed his scouting spot, scanning the snow-dusted New York University English hall.

"Hey, Captain Gay." Kurt started at the sound of the snarky voice and whirled around. The speaker was a tall, pretty girl with light brown hair dip-dyed an electric blue and glasz eyes framed in thick mascara. She wore a black halter top and fishnet tights beneath leather shorts that brought out her voluptuous ass. "Who're you?"

Kurt cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I'm Kurt Hummel."

She clicked her long fingernails against the wood of the door, her eyes raking over him like he was a dead mouse her cat had left on her front porch. "And you're here because…?"

"Excuse me, I don't think that's any of your business," Kurt replied, glaring distastefully as the girl.

She shrugged. "Well, dollface, you're at my classroom door mulling about aimlessly so I'd say that's some of my business. Don't you have some grand Broadway show to plan?"

Taken aback, Kurt sputtered. "I—I—" She cocked a pierced eyebrow, a grin playing slyly on her lips. He sighed. "I'm waiting for someone."

She pursed her lips almost disapprovingly. "Mop-Head isn't coming. You're wasting your time. Everyone else is here. I don't know what you want with Anderson unless it's a quickie, but he's not coming, twinkle toes."

Kurt nearly choked, his mouth agape as he positively stared as this mysterious girl who seemed to know everything. "I didn't want—I don't want to have a—a _quickie—" _The girl smirked and strutted into the classroom, Kurt hot on her heels. "You can't just_ say _something like that and then walk away—"

"Maeve?" A wiry man who looked as if he was in his early fifties rose from the chair behind the desk. The salt-and-pepper hair atop his head was balding in some places, revealing his bare scalp. He was dressed in a fern green button-down and grey slacks. There was something about his eyes, something about the age lines etched into his skin that told stories, making Kurt uneasy. "Who's your friend?"

The girl, Maeve, was making her way to her desk in the back without so much as a glance toward the teacher. "He's not _my _friend, Mr. Ellis." She plopped down defiantly in her seat and crossed her arms over her prominent cleavage. "He's _Blaine's._"

At this, Mr. Ellis straightened. He turned toward Kurt icily. "As you can see, Mr. Anderson is not here today. In fact, he's hardly ever here." Why did this not surprise Kurt? His heart twisted painfully. He should've run faster the other day, he should've gotten there earlier. He shouldn't have let Blaine go in the first place. "I suggest you locate your friend elsewhere. I have a class to teach."

Kurt swallowed, his throat raw and turned on his heel. He could practically feel the students laughing at him as he hastily exited the classroom, the looming door clanging closed behind him. Everyone seemed to know exactly who Blaine was, and not in a good sense either.

There had been a time when Kurt felt comfortable in Aaron's arms. He was always the bigger spoon, mostly because of his lanky form, and Kurt had felt so secure in his familiar tangle of limbs. But now, while the clock on the nightstand flashed 3:21 and their matching engagement rings glimmered in the faint moonlight as Aaron shifted closer, Kurt couldn't think of a worse place to be.

His head felt like it was going to explode, clouded with endlessly spiraling thoughts of Blaine, Blaine, Blaine. After leaving the university in a turmoil of humility and frustration, Kurt had returned home to Aaron's eager and welcoming arms. His parents had caught a flight earlier that morning, impatient to return to their growing stack of paperwork. Their departure did little to lessen the weight on Kurt's shoulders, but he relished the lack of wedding planning talk.

He exhaled into the silence of the room, the rise and fall of Aaron's chest beating into his spine. It was too quiet, too dark, too uncomfortable. Ever so gently, Kurt wiggled out of Aaron's firm grasp, lifting his thin arm over his shoulder and sliding out from between his blue satin sheets.

The wood floor creaked as Kurt made his way over to the dresser and dug through his sock drawer. His fingers fumbled, grazing the bottom of the drawer, until they bumped against the rough spine of the photo book. Kurt padded out of his bedroom and into their cramped living room where he curled up on the couch.

The tips of his fingers danced over the all-too-familiar cover of the faded leather photo album. _High School _the title read in elaborate black and red bubble letters. He flipped through the pages, smiling fondly down at snapshots of him and Mercedes at the mall, Brittany and Santana each kissing one of his cheeks, Rachel and him posing in front of the Statue of Liberty when they went to New York Nationals, Finn biting into a grilled cheese sandwich, and then…Blaine. There were so many pictures of him; laying on his belly and reading a Vogue magazine, frog headphones clamped over his ears and his eyes closed as he napped on their road trip for regionals, Blaine holding out a dripping strawberry ice cream cone. Each picture shattered Kurt a little further. That innocence in Blaine's honey hazel eyes, that love, was gone now.

Tears poured down Kurt's cheeks as he, fingers trembling, turned the laminated pages. He stopped on a picture of him and Blaine in a Ferris wheel cart, arms wrapped around each other and beaming broadly.

_The hot May sun beat down on Kurt's neck as their bright orange cart swayed back and forth. He gripped the window ledge with white knuckles as he peered over the edge, positively marveled by the vibrant colors and never-ending motion of the Ohio State Fair. _

_ Blaine nudged his boyfriend, his lips stained a rosy pink from the cotton and his eyes bright and lively, an almost melted gold in the dazzling sunlight. "We're almost to the top," he said eagerly. "And you know what happens at the top." _

_ Kurt found himself smirking at Blaine's jubilancy. "The cart tips and we're tossed into the deepest, darkest pits of hell?"_

_ "Jeez, aren't you a ball of sunshine today?" Blaine chuckled. "We have to kiss at the top. Sorry, I don't make the rules." _

_ Kurt laughed, shaking his head. The ride lurched again, the rusted gears squeaking as they rose higher into the empty blue sky. "Oh, yeah? And where did you hear that? _Cosmopolitan_?"_

_ "It's in the Handbook of When To Kiss, didn't you read it?" Kurt rolled his eyes, his fingers finding Blaine's and instantly intertwining. Blaine jumped up and down like an excited child in the plastic seat, his face glowing with delight. "We're almost there!" _

_ There was a grotesque clicking sound as the cart settled at the top. In that moment, Blaine looked so hopefully, so puppy-like, that Kurt couldn't resist leaning forward and kissing him. Blaine's arms instantly went to his waist, pulling him closer. "I can't believe you just made me do that—and with such a shitty excuse, too," Kurt hissed as they pulled apart. _

_ "You loved it." _

_ Kurt sighed. "Your lips taste like cotton candy." _

_ Blaine waggled his eyebrows mischievously. "That's not the only thing that tastes sweet." _

_ Kurt snorted. "Picture time," he announced, letting go of his boyfriend's hand to search around in his leather messenger bag for the camera Carole had gotten him for his birthday. He settled back, extending his arm and turning the camera so the lens faced the couple. "Pretend like you actually love me." _

_ "I don't have to pretend," Blaine murmured as they froze for the blinding flash of the camera. _

To this day, Kurt still couldn't believe he had let Blaine kiss him at the top of that Ferris wheel, despite the way his stomach had fluttered for hours afterward. He'd been such a romantic, always fishing for excuses to make Kurt kiss him. It'd become a sort of challenge between them; seeing how ridiculous Blaine could get before Kurt gave in.

The next page displayed a photograph that had been taken only two days before their nasty breakup. Kurt inhaled sharply, his fingers rested on top of Blaine's face.

_"Stop studying, Kurt," Blaine insisted. "You've been looking over those trigonometry notes for three hours. I may not be a scientist, but I'm pretty sure that's not the best study method." _

_ Kurt didn't look up from his position on Blaine's floor, nose pressed into his notebook. "You're just saying that because you want to get into my pants." _

_ Blaine sighed exaggeratedly, flopping onto the bed and groaning into his pillow. "That's not the _main_ reason," he protested. "Maybe I'm genuinely concerned for your mental health." When Blaine received no reply from this, he reached across to the bedside table and grabbed Kurt's phone off the top. He clicked open the camera and his face appeared on the screen. He stuck his tongue out, tilting his head to the side, and snapped the picture. Then he mussed up his curls and posed for another shot. He lay down on his back and pointed downward suggestively. _

_ "Blaaaaaine, you've been silent for much too long," Kurt called. "I'm worried. Please don't tell me you've resorted to sexting some cock-hungry fifty-year-old Indian man on Omegle." _

_ Blaine laughed, hanging upside down off the edge of the bed. "I'm taking pictures on your phone." _

_ Kurt whirled around. "Oh, great, so the police will think it's me illegally sexting—" _

_ "I'm not illegally sexting anyone, worrywart. I'm taking pictures of myself, so you'll always have something _pleasant_ to look at when you're in New York," Blaine replied, grinning cheesily into the camera. "Come take a picture with me." _

_ "Blaine, I'm studying." _

_ "Please? It's just one picture." Blaine pouted._

_ Kurt, grumbling, rose to his feet and strode over to the bed. "One picture," he said determinedly. _

_ Blaine held out the phone, finger posed over the picture button, and pressed his lips to Kurt's cheek. The flash went off and they leaned in to look at the result. "I look like shit," Kurt muttered._

_ "No—" Blaine reached up to kiss the dark circles under his eyes, "—you—" He kissed the tip of his nose, "—don't." He kissed Kurt lightly on the lips. "You look beautiful."_

"Kurt? Are you okay?"

Kurt started. "Oh, god. Aaron." He quickly closed the book, tucking it subtly under the blanket. "Yes—yes, I'm fine."

Aaron crossed through the room and sat beside him. "You're crying."

"O-oh. It was just a rough day at work, you know. Isabelle didn't like my idea of cashmere socks," Kurt said.

Aaron moved closer, his arm going around Kurt's shoulders in what he thought was a reassuring gesture. "Everything's going to be fine."

Kurt gnawed the inside of his cheek, his skin prickling at Aaron's touch. "I hope so."


	6. It Messed Me Up, Need Seconds to Breathe

**A/N:** This chapter contains self-harm, although not explicitly the act of doing so. You all have been waiting so patiently for this chapter, so I hope my co-author (kurtsontop) and I did it justice. Thanks again to all who read and review! This chapter's song and title comes from _Whadaya Want From Me _by the lovely Adam Lambert. We update every Sunday!

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**Chapter Six: It Messed Me Up, Need a Second to Breathe**

_Just don't give up, I'm workin it out  
Please don't give in, I won't let you down  
__**It messed me up, need a second to breathe**__  
Just keep coming around  
Hey, whataya want from me?_

"Are you telling me that you said yes to a guy you've only been dating for three years? And this is the same guy who couldn't find the balls to propose to you himself?" Burt remarked for what felt like the hundredth time.

Kurt sighed and squeezed his eyes shut, thumping his head repeatedly against the padding of the sofa. "Yes, dad," he replied stiffly. He could hear the disapproval echoing in this father's voice and though muffled by the poor cell phone reception, his stomach sank with every word that left his mouth.

Burt paused and Kurt could hear the familiar clangs and chatter of the auto shop buzzing in the background. "Look, son, I raised you for eighteen years. The Kurt Hummel I knew never would've settled down so early, and for a man that didn't propose from the top of the Empire State Building, no less. There's something else going on."

The apartment was suffocatingly silent, filled only with the sound of Kurt's shaky breathing and the furious beeping of drivers outside. He had been stupid to think that Burt wouldn't see right through him; that the phone would provide a cover for how he truly felt.

"I cracked under the pressure," Kurt whispered. The back of his neck prickled as if Aaron was standing over him, watching with tears streaming down his cheeks. _He's at school,_ Kurt assured himself, _he can't hear you._

Burt exhaled, long and slow. "You have to tell him you don't want to marry him."

"But I do—"

"You have the entire world ahead of you, bud. Are you really ready to give up a potential Vogue career? Or the Broadway stage? Don't get me wrong, Kurt, I want you to get married, but at the right time with someone you truly love."

Kurt's heart ached. Why couldn't just be the person his father clearly thought he was? His fingers trembled when he lifted them up to press the palm of his hand against the frosted window pane. There was his city, right outside the window, sparkling with snow and polished by an atmosphere of jubilancy. New Yorkers didn't settle for anything less than the best. They were wired for supremacy; for being able to navigate icy streets through crowds of thousands of people; for being able to scout out the best bagel places; for being able to pawn Broadway tickets off eBay for minimalistic prices.

"Kurt? You still there?"

"Um, yeah," Kurt said. "Yeah, sorry."

"What's on your mind? The engagement can't be all," Burt asked. His voice was kind, patient, sympathetic. He wanted nothing more than to be home in safe little Lima, curled up on the couch and spilling his guts over steaming mugs of warm milk.

Before he knew it, the words were bubbling up over his lips and pouring into the phone receiver. "I saw Blaine. I saw him for the first time in _years_ and god, dad, he looked_ awful._ He's on drugs now—_"_

"This can't be the same guy—"

Kurt leapt off the couch and began pacing back and forth like if he didn't move, he would explode. "It's all my fault, I know it is. I just keep thinking that maybe if I fixed him, if I could just help him get to a better place, I could be happy with Aaron the way I'm _supposed_ to be."

"Whoa, whoa, slow down," Burt insisted. "Who told you that you're 'supposed' to be with Aaron? There's nobody you're 'supposed' to be with, Kurt. And what happened to Blaine isn't your fault. It was his own choice to go down that path and there's nothing you could've done to change it."

Burt's words weren't getting through to him. Of course it was his fault. He couldn't stop seeing what Blaine would've been like if Kurt had stayed with him or waited for him or done something.

"I have to fix him, dad." Kurt sank to the ground, running his free hand through his hair.

"Son, you have to realize that you can't fix everybody. Some people are broken and there's not a damn thing you can do about it."

"I can't stop trying. Don't you see? If I stop trying, then I'll be just as broken as him. He was a part of me once and I can't forget that. I might be doing this for myself or for Aaron or for Blaine; I don't care, but I know this is something I have to do."

Kurt waited anxiously for Burt's response, the cool wood floor digging into his upper thighs as the seconds ticked by. "I trust you. Do what you need to do. Follow your heart," Burt said.

His eyes slipped close, hand sweaty clamped around his phone. "Thanks."

"You take care, son."

"You too, dad."

"Up and at 'em, Lady Hummel! Hurry up and spray yourself with the mist of fairy cum or douse yourself in rainbow sparkles only found at the bottom of every other Lucky Charms box or whatever it is you gays do to get ready and we'll be on our way."

Kurt groaned, rolling over and clapping his hands over his ears. "What the fuck?" he exclaimed. "I don't have class today, I'm allowed to sleep in."

Santana, who had been primping her long dark curls in the mirror, picked up one of Kurt's pillows from the floor and promptly smacked him over the head with it. "This isn't about class, princess, we have work to do. If you're not up in five, I'm going to make Rachel come over here and serenade you."

She slammed the door behind her on the way out, causing Kurt to jolt and fall off the edge of his bed. On the floor, he squirmed out of his huddle of blankets and stalked across the bedroom to his dresser. "Fucking Santana," he grumbled as he fished a set of clothes out of the drawers. "'Living with her will be fun', they said. 'She's a great friend', they said. Fuck them."

After brushing his teeth and combing his hair, Kurt padded out into the kitchen only to find Santana flipping through one of his _Vogue _magazines on the couch with his Broadway cup in hand.

"What're you doing?" Kurt wanted to know, rifling through the cupboards and retrieving a new pouch of coffee. "And please tell me why the hell you thought it was a good idea to wake me up at eight on my day off."

Santana stood up and smoothed her skintight magenta dress, striding over to the counter and heaving herself onto the surface. "We have business to take care of," she replied matter-of-factly.

"Fuck no, Santana, I am not going with you on another one of your 'business trips'. Last time we nearly got arrested—"

"Jesus Christ, Hummel, I'm not talking about that kind of _business. _This is your business." She leaned close to him, her lips stained bright red and her eyes flickering with excitement. "I heard your conversation last night, with your dad. I didn't even mean to, but I was coming over to your apartment to borrow milk—you know how Berry bitches when she doesn't get milk with her evening tea—and I heard you talking about the hobbit."

Kurt nearly dropping the coffee cup in his hands, hot water splashing over the rim and burning the flesh on his forefinger. "_Santana_!" he hissed. "You can't just do that! Breaking into someone's apartment and eavesdropping is a federal offense!"

Santana rolled her eyes. "Oh, please, I just used the spare key under the doormat."

Kurt threw his hands up in the air, exasperated.

"Okay, fine, whatever, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that, please forgive me, blah blah blah. Anyways, the point is that I heard what I heard and there's not a damn thing we can do to change it. So, being the darling angel I am, I decided to take you to see your long missing gay twin Buckenheim today."

Kurt nearly choked on his sip of coffee, grasping the counter with white knuckles. "This is none of your concern, Santana. Blaine is my problem and I'm going to deal with him on my own."  
Santana hopped off the counter and dumped her mug in the sink, then turning to face Kurt with hands on her hips. "I'm so fucking sick of your ongoing pity party. Rachel and I were friends with Blaine, too; I genuinely liked the twinkle-toed superstar. For the past four years, you think you've been the only one entitled enough to be upset about your stupid breakup, but you're not. Yes, I chose your side, but that doesn't mean I don't occasionally miss the hobbit and that certainly doesn't mean I'm not allowed to still care about him," she snapped bitterly. "I suggest you suck your whole 'Blaine is my problem' argument back up your bubble butt and shut the hell up."

Kurt flinched, lowering his gaze to the ground. He bit his lip, embarrassed. She was right. Santana, despite her harsh exterior, was always fucking right. "NYU is my only lead," he said finally. "I've gone twice already but managed to miss him both times."

Santana shrugged. "Third time's the charm. Besides, if we go early enough we might be able to speak to one of his teachers. Assuming you already got his class schedule?"  
Kurt blushed, grabbing his messenger bag off the coat rack. "Yeah. And there's one teacher in particular I want to speak to."

"It's colder than Santa Claus's testicles out here," Santana observed, clutching her elbows and shivering as they made their way across New York University's campus.

Kurt laughed. "Where do you even come up with these metaphors, San?"

"My Mexican third eye has a powerful insight for clever innuendos, porcelain."

Santana had insisted on stopping for bagels—"I can't be my sassy self without some protein"—and after waiting in an hour long line and missing their bus ride to the university, they had managed to arrive nearly two hours later than expected.

The streets were busy as usual, snow falling in massive, glistening clumps from the stone grey sky above. Kurt's fingers were permanently frozen around his black seed bagel, he was sure, and his toes were bound to blue from where they were cramped in his combat boots. But this was all for Blaine, he kept reminding himself. He would freeze, and get stuck in hour long lines, and put up with all of Santana's rude remarks if it meant he could save Blaine.

"What room was it again?" Santana asked and they rounded the corner into the English hall.

"Mr. Ellis's," Kurt replied. "There's an outdoor entrance and then the one from inside the building, but I think we'd have a better chance of getting in from the outside." The snow beneath their feet crunched deafeningly as they neared the classroom door. The chilled air caught in his throat as he struggled to breathe. This could be it.

The door was locked, they discovered as Kurt repeatedly jiggled the frozen knob. "Excuse me, Mr. Ellis? It's Kurt Hummel, Blaine's friend. I was wondering if I could speak to you!"

"Kurt, Jesus, shut up," snarled Santana, peeking into the side window. "Do you want to attract the entire campus?"

Kurt stood back, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched Santana teeter back and forth on her tiptoes. "Nobody's in there."

"Shut up."

"It's fucking freezing, Santana, let's just go back."

"Kurt, shut up."

"I'm not going to wait out here all day for some creep of a teacher. The least we could do is go get coffee and some warmer clothes, I mean, come on—"

"KURT!" Santana screamed, jumping down off her perch and yanking him over to the door. "There's somebody in there, sleeping in one of the desks And don't you dare tell me it's probably a pile of books or a lump of clothes because I've walked in on my share of classroom squatters; I know the difference," she quipped.

Kurt shook his head in disbelief. "Why would anyone want to break into an English classroom and sleep at ten in the morning?" he asked.

Santana was digging in her purse, spilling various lipsticks and tampons and coupons onto the ground. "How the fuck should I know? Maybe it's the teacher, maybe it's some broke ass stripper looking for a place to rest, maybe it's Robin Williams."

"How are you going to get in there, anyway?"

Triumphantly, she held up a sparkly blue nail filer. "Where there's a will, there's a way, Lady Hummel." The seconds ticked by as Santana tinkered with the lock, her fingers red and swollen from the cold but still driven by an inner desperation.

At last, the lock clicked and the door swung open with a long creak. Kurt stepped inside, peering around the edge and bracing himself to see a disgruntled hobo swinging a club at them. The room was dark and just as cold as it had been outside, filled only with the fading and speckled light of the late morning sun. A patch of sunshine illuminated a dark shape huddled over one of the desks, back hunched and head covered by a tangle of arms. Kurt glanced back tentatively toward Santana but she shooed him forward.

He turned back, creeping closer. "Um, hi. Sorry to wake you, but—" Kurt froze, every nerve in his body turning instantly to ice. Ebony curls slick with snowflakes, the chiseled curve of a jaw dusted with a five o'clock shadow, pink lips chapped from the cold wind. Blaine. And he wasn't moving.

Kurt dropped to the ground, gripping his shoulders and shaking them furiously as he pushed him upright, his head flopping limply back. "Blaine? Blaine, please wake up. Blaine!" he cried, heart thumping like a siren in his ears. This couldn't be happening.

Panicked, Kurt pressed two of his fingers to Blaine's throat, searching erratically for a pulse. Nothing. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"Kurt," Santana's voice was high-pitched with terror. "Kurt, should I call 911? Kurt?"

Kurt could barely hear her. "BLAINE!" he screamed. He'd done it, he'd overdosed, or killed himself—Kurt didn't see any blood but—

Blaine jerked upward, blinking rapidly and lifting his arms to cover his face. Kurt slumped completely, like all of the weight had been sucked from his body. He was awake. He was _alive._

Almost dreamily, Blaine's gaze fell on Kurt. Despite the scarlet bags hanging from underneath his hazel eyes, Blaine looked just as beautiful as ever. There was a soft sort of serenity gracing over his features, like he was floating through space and he had no intention of ever landing. Then the serenity shattered and Blaine was scrambling up out of the desk and pressing himself flat against the far wall with wide and horrified eyes.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

Kurt swallowed hard, extending a hand with trembling fingers towards the waste of the man before him. "Blaine, calm down, it's just me. I've been looking everywhere for you. Fuck, you look awful."

Blaine streaked to his feet. He looked like a startled deer caught in headlights, with flushed white skin pigmented only by the red of his wild eyes and peeling lips. "It's 'just you'? Because that's supposed to be reassuring," he spat sourly. "Of course I look like shit. Feel like shit, too." He bent towards Kurt, managing to keep the majority of his body keeled backward as much as possible as he scooped up his coat.

Kurt was utterly helpless. He could recall a time when all Blaine needed was a mug full of herbal tea and a Disney movie to cure a broken heart or crushed dreams or even to help him forget about the most recent black eye. But now…But now it didn't look like there was anything that could fix him. There was something in his eyes; a deadly, agonized venom that swore he would down six bottles of pills in less than a moment if Kurt took one step closer.

He glanced back to Santana in the doorway, her cocoa brown eyes as wide as golf balls as she watched Blaine in a disgusted awe. His mouth tasted like bile when he opened his mouth to speak again. "Please just listen to me, Blaine. We can fix this—together."

"What the fuck is there to fix, Kurt? I'm not _broken_. And you can't just expect to swoop in with a dash of White Knight Syndrome and assume I'm going to leap into your arms like some damsel in distress."

Kurt shook his head insistently. He'd already let Blaine slip through his fingers countless times. He was not going to risk losing him again, not going to let him walk away with those dead eyes and painful smirk and take every damn thing Kurt had with him.

"You just need help. Rehab, therapy, something. This isn't—" Kurt paused, racking his brain for the right words that wouldn't make Blaine stomp out of the room, "—this isn't who you used to be. I _knew_ you, Blaine. I knew every freckle on your body and the way your right eye would twitch when you were upset and the way your mouth would frown ever so slightly when you hated something and that bright spark in your eye when you sang and the way you twirled and danced in the rain like you were a giddy puppy. Please just give me one more chance to find him."

Kurt's words rang out into the quiet air of the classroom, pure hope sparking his tone. He needed Blaine to see, just needed him to know what this meant for him; for them.

"'People change'. I'm not who I 'used to be', this is me _now_ and I don't want your pity-party. I don't want your promised safety or your false hope because you gave me that four years ago. _Four years ago,_ Kurt, and I was stupid enough to trust you then. But not now, not this time. I don't need you to come back and fucking try to 'fix' me so you can be the hero." Blaine stepped down off the last riser, and strode towards the teacher's desk.

Blaine's words echoed in his ears. He was right; he was so right that it hurt. He'd stopped understanding Blaine many years ago but Blaine had never stopped understanding him. Kurt was doing this for himself, for Aaron, for his peace of mind and not for the man whom he once loved.

He took a step toward Blaine, lowering his head and begging himself not to burst into tears. "You're right, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear? This is all _my _fault. You're like this because of_ me_ and I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I shouldn't have come back here, I just…" Kurt was backing towards the door, eyes stinging. "I'm just sorry."

"You're telling me everything I already knew, so hats off to you for your reiteration, good sir." He tilted back in the chair, arms crossed over his chest and eyes heartless raking over Kurt's body. God, when had he become so bitter? "Are you actually leaving or did you plan on coming back again once you've found a reason to 'save me'?"

He wasn't going to let Blaine treat him like this. For fuck's sake, he was a human being and he was going to make mistakes and he was going to break hearts but that didn't mean he didn't deserve to be given some decency. Kurt straightened his shoulders and bit back the tears. _No,_ he told himself. _No._

"I'm glad you got your way. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a wedding to plan with a man who is slowly driving me insane with every kiss, every touch and every fucking breath. I can't be with him and I thought that was because of you, but now I know I was wrong. It's my fault, all my fault, just like everything else. It's my fault for picturing your eyes every time I look at him and my fault for wanting it to be your arms around me when we cuddle and my fault for knowing I wouldn't be picturing anyone else but you when I stand up at the altar."

Kurt was utterly shocked at the words that poured out of his mouth. He hadn't truly realized that was the way he felt until he'd heard them. Blaine was staring at him, all the venom gone from his glare and replaced with an almost unsure curiosity.

He licked his lips nervously, picking at the oak of the desk before looking back up again. "If I give you my number, will you stop stalking me?" he asked.

Kurt's breath hitched. He'd been expecting some sort of smart ass retort, a roll of the eyes and a dismissive wave of the hand. "Yes," he said almost too fast and sounding much too desperate. He needed this, needed it more than he needed air. Maybe he was still trying to do it for Aaron or so he could sleep better at night or maybe he was trying to do it because a little part of his heart still leapt at the sound of Blaine's name. He didn't know why and he didn't care, because he'd done it. Blaine had given in.

Blaine reached robotically towards the pad of neon yellow sticky notes and scribbled out his phone number in navy pen. Then he stretched his arm forward, eyes glued to Kurt's expression.

Kurt's fingers closed around the note, but he didn't even register the numbers; instead, he was fixated on the neat, red lines that streaked across the parchment-coloured flesh of Blaine's wrist. Kurt couldn't feel; couldn't think; couldn't breathe. He could only grab Blaine and pull him closer, fingers tingling in a sickening sort of electricity as he traced each perfectly sliced gash slowly.

"Oh, Blaine," he whispered, hot tears streaming down his cheeks.

Blaine ripped his arm out of Kurt's grasp and stumbled backward. "Go," he said, voice bleeding with agony. "I think you should go now."

Kurt nodded, unable to think of anything but the cuts. Fuck, there were so many cuts. He took confused steps toward the door, the sticky note stuffed into his pocket, and the world spinning violently around him.

He nudged the door closed with the heel of his shoe and stood stiffly under the falling snow. Santana's features were morphed into horror, her long lashes sprinkled with sparkling snowflakes.

She held out her arms, shaking her head and Kurt fell against her, sinking to the ground as heaving sobs shook his body.


	7. No Pain Inside, You're My Protection

**A/N: **Another thanks to everyone who continues to read and review every week! Don't forget to read Blaine's POV (_Stained Glass)_ written by the lovely kurtsontop. This chapter's song comes from _Sober_ by P!nk, which I have been simply itching to use. We update every Sunday!

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**Chapter Seven: **

I'm safe up high, nothing can touch me  
But why do I feel this party's over?  
**No pain inside, you're my protection  
**But how do I feel this good sober?

_ I'm so glad we're talking again. _Kurt's fingers trembled as he tapped out the text message, then hovered, frozen, above the send button. It had been nearly eight hours since he had last seen Blaine; eight agonizing hours spent laying curled up under his blankets while a constant stream of tears poured down his cheeks. Santana had been just as awestruck as he had been, staring into space with snow-white features and knuckles clenched so tightly around the subway armrest that Kurt was sure she was going to pass out. Once they had returned to their apartment building, Santana had departed into her room without so much as another word.

Kurt had expected alcohol, and a snarky attitude and painful remarks about their past, that was a given. But he had not expected the cuts that ran in neat, symmetric lines over the frail flesh of Blaine's wrist. Kurt had been the cause of that. He was the _reason _Blaine had hurt himself.

Kurt twisted in on himself, the phone huddled between his clammy hands. Maybe if he wished hard enough, he could simply disappear. _Poof._

The text was too plain. It sounded like casual conversation between normal ex-boyfriends; Blaine and Kurt were not normal ex-boyfriends. Frustrated, Kurt started at the dappled rays of honey golden sunlight that spilled through his window blinds, spraying in webbed patterns over his comforter as if it might hold the answer.

"Kurt?" The call was followed by the slam of the front door and the rustle of a coat. Kurt rolled over and hefted the blanket over his head. _Not today, please. Go away, Aaron. _There was a tentative knock at the door. _GO AWAY, AARON._

"Are you asleep?"

He sighed heavily and sat up, peeking his head out to peer at his fiancé. Aaron grinned crookedly at him, stepping over and perching on the edge of his bed. "Feeling any better?" he asked.

Plagued by thoughts of finding Blaine, Kurt had faked sick for the past two days and taken a mini vacation from Vogue, NYADA, and the diner. Kurt nodded, flopping back down and staring up at the ceiling. The phone was deadweight in his palm.

Aaron laid down beside him, his lanky arm curving over Kurt's form as he pressed a soft kiss to the nape of his neck. "I missed you today. The piles of paperwork at my desk don't seem so large when I get to take lunch breaks with you," he chuckled. "Do you think you'll be back to normal by Monday?"

His reply stuck like wet cotton in the back of his throat. Kurt wanted nothing more than to pretend he was sick for the rest of his life just so he could lay in bed and let all the problems around him sort themselves out. "I'm sure I will be," he said in monotone.

"Good." Aaron kissed the line of his jaw, the tip of his tongue flitting out to nip at his skin. Kurt shifted uncomfortably, squirming until he could face him. Aaron's blond tendrils were still streaked with snowflakes and his eyes were startlingly blue, filled with only admiration and adoration. He was a wonderful person, Kurt knew that much, but he wasn't _Kurt's_ wonderful person.

"Not tonight," Kurt whispered, reaching his hand up to stroke Aaron's hair back. "Can we just…Can we just cuddle?"

Aaron nodded with an understanding smile, pressing Kurt against his chest with secure and strong, thin arms. He smelled like pine cologne and blue stamp ink and laundry detergent. He smelled like familiarity and Kurt found himself sinking into his touch. He didn't feel like Blaine, or smell like Blaine, or act like Blaine in any way. But for what wasn't the first time in his life, Kurt needed to get his thoughts away from him.

His fingers fumbled with the keypad on his phone, until he found the round send button. Inhaling shakily, Kurt pressed send and nestled closer to Aaron. Maybe he didn't love Aaron, but Aaron loved him and that was good enough for now.

"Hello and welcome to the Spotlight Diner. I'm Rachel Berry and I'll be your server tonight. What can I get you?" Rachel displayed one of her signature superstar smiles, cocking her hip out and flipping her mahogany hair over her shoulder.

The customer in front of her, who happened to be the only current inhabitant of the diner who wasn't slumped over at the bar with a margarita in hand, was a cute man who looked to be in his mid-twenties. He had shaggy dark brown hair and lines of exhaustion etched into his face. His eyes were brown and filled with charisma.

It was five after twelve in the morning on a Saturday and if Rachel was going to be stuck with the only midnight shift in the entire diner, by God she was going to flirt with the attractive customers that happened to come in.

"Good evening, Rachel," the man said with a flitting and somewhat sad smile. "Just a slice of cheesecake, if you could. Something expensive and filled with way too many empty calories."

Rachel grinned. "Coming right up," she replied musically, slipping behind the bar and retrieving the cake from the fridge. "You remind me of one of my friends. He'd do anything for a slice of cheesecake."

The man laughed quietly, staring down at his clasped hands. "He sounds like a great guy already."

"Oh, he is. He works here with me actually. Well, not lately, because he's been sick. Or 'sick', he's really just trying to get over his ex-boyfriend from a couple years ago." Rachel cut a piece of the dessert and placed it daintily on one of their _Lion King: The Musical _plates, sucking the sweet remains off the tips of her fingers.

Rachel carried the plate over to him and sat down in the booth. "I'm having the same problem, actually. My roommate is doing the same, trying to get over his…I'm not sure how long it's been, maybe four years? But he's moping a lot more than usual as of late."

"I'm taking an intermission!" Rachel announced loudly, though she knew Frank was no doubt asleep in the back room. That, or masturbating to some Broadway play. "Sorry, we have to say that every time we take a break. Your roommate sounds like a handful."

"Oh he is, he's a complete nightmare. Apparently he had a run in with said ex and he's all shaken up again. I tried to help him the other night and called his father—" he broke off here, with a nervous cough, "—which turned out to be the worst idea in the entire world and he's even more brutal than usual."

Rachel frowned as the man roughly stabbed the cheesecake with his fork. "Ah, daddy issues," she remarked coldly. "I'm sorry about your roommate…"

"Christian," he supplied. "It's okay. Blaine is just about one part jackass and three parts stubborn. I can't imagine he's always been this way."

Rachel froze, half-convinced she had fallen asleep some point during their conversation because she certainly couldn't have just heard that name come out of sweet Christian's mouth. "_Blaine?" _she repeated. "I'm sorry, _Blaine Anderson?_"

He glanced up at her from his plate, raising a dubious eyebrow. "That's him."

"Holy shit," she muttered. "Holy shit. And you said he's your roommate? He _lives _with you?"

Christian cocked his head at her. "Uh…yeah? For two years and a bit, now."

Rachel jumped up out of the booth, yanking her waitress notepad and singing pen out of her apron pocket. "Look, I know this might sound a little abrupt, but can I have your number? There's someone I know who needs to get in contact with your…roommate."

He looked up at the girl, mouth gaping open where he closed it a few times and took the pad from her to write down his number. "Don't let this... friend of yours fuck him up anymore, please. He's already messed up enough."

Rachel nodded hurriedly, stuffing the paper back into her pocket and glancing at the rotating _Wicked_ clock on the wall. "Damn, I don't get off until three." She sat down again in the seat, shoulders slumping in defeat. She debated calling Kurt to tell him about Christian, but knew she'd rather tell him about it in person. Her heart was still thumping deafeningly in her ears when she glanced back up at him through her long lashes.

Clearing his throat uncomfortably and looking down at his hardly touched cheesecake, Christian said, "I could keep you company until then and we could uh.. Go.. out.. or something? I just know how lonely and boring the graveyard shift is."

Rachel couldn't help the broad smile that graced over her lips as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "I'd like that," she replied. "I'd like that a lot."

When Kurt first heard the scream split through the silent air, he had thought it was a burglar. Aaron had jolted out of bed, fumbling for the light beside the door while Kurt snatched his cell off the bedside table and readied to call 911.

The flashing green numbers of his alarm clock read 3:18. Kurt stumbled out of the tangle of blankets and hurried over to Aaron, who was cracking the bedroom door open. "Oh, my god, I knew this would happen. That homeless man on the street corner swore he would break into our apartment and steal all of my silk pajamas—"

"Kurt!" Rachel came racing through the door, pushing them aside and running wildly with her coat swinging from her arms and her hair half-frozen in the faint hallway lighting.

"Rachel!" Kurt exclaimed. She paused, hands on her knees and she inhaled the warm air. Her cheeks were flushed and she was still dressed in the bright red uniform from the Spotlight Diner. "What happened?"

"I was working the midnight shift at the diner," she panted, chest heaving and cheeks flushed with urgency. "And this guy came in. He was super handsome and charming and he ordered cheesecake which reminded me of you and I told him that and then he started talking about his roommate who is trying to get over his ex-boyfriend and well, I really didn't listen to that part because I was too busy staring into his eyes, which kind of look like spring fields in May—"

"Rachel, I swear to god, if you barged into my apartment at three in the morning to tell me about_ some guy—"_

"No, no, just listen! That guy is Blaine's _roommate_." Kurt's eyes widened at his. "I got Christian's number so maybe you could try and contact Blaine—"

Kurt's gaze flickered to Aaron, who was watching the fiasco with a deer-in-the-headlights expression. He shoved Rachel out into the hall, ignoring her protest and closed the door behind them. "Rachel, I saw Blaine today."

"_What? _When? Where?" she cried.

"Santana and I—" The buzzing of his phone in his hand silenced them both and they looked down to the illuminated screen. It blinked with a text from Blaine.

Kurt's breath hitched as he opened the message, his hands shaking so hard he could barely read the words.

_Me too._


	8. All That's Waiting is Regret

**A/N: **This chapter contains mentions of self-harm and visuals, but not explicitly the act of doing so. My beautiful co-author (kurtsontop) received a FF review that suggested we use _Jar of Hearts_ by Christina Perri because it gave off a perfect sort of vibe so we used it for this chapter's song and title! Thanks again to everyone who reads and reviews!

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**Chapter Eight: **

_No I can't take one more step towards you__  
__Cause __**all that's waiting is regret**__  
__And don't you know I'm not your ghost anymore?__  
__You lost the love I loved the most__  
_

Sometime around five in the morning, nearly two sleepless hours after Rachel had barged into his apartment, Kurt had untangled himself from Aaron's iron grasp and slipped on his robe before stumbling his way into Rachel and Santana's room across the hall. He'd found both of the girls seated on the couch, mugs of chai latte in their hands while _RENT _played on the television.

Kurt had immediately lost himself in the comforting music and love stories, curled under the blanket between the girls while Rachel stroked through his hair. There was something about their continued silence as the early morning light broke over the skyline that soothed the writhing knot of guilt buried in his gut.

It was around seven when Santana got up to shower, grumbling something about checking out a job at a strip club. Kurt sat up, tucking his knees to his chest as the opening credits to _Hairspray _played over the screen.

"Are you and Aaron okay?" Rachel asked quietly, eyes fixated straight ahead.

He sighed, fiddling with a loose thread on the hem of the quilt. "I don't know. I don't know what Aaron thinks about this and I don't _want _to know."

"Kurt, you're engaged to him. You can't just keep leaving him in the dark."

He thumped his head against the back of the couch. _But I don't love him. _"I'll try to talk to him tonight. I just…I need to sort things out with Blaine before I can sort things out with Aaron."

"It's been four damn years, princess, and you're still putting the hobbit before yourself." Santana sashayed into the kitchen, a towel wrapped around her hair and a Statue of Liberty t-shirt half-hanging off her shoulders. Kurt bit back his retort. He knew Santana and he knew how deep seeing Blaine yesterday had hurt her. "When are you going to learn that your feelings come before your crack-addicted ex-boyfriend?"

"God, Santana, he's not addicted to crack," he snapped.

"Well, he's sure as fuck addicted to something and I don't give enough damns to find out what it happens to be." She slammed the cupboard shut with more force than necessary, her dark eyes glaring at the cereal bowl on the counter.

Rachel rested a hand on his shoulder and shook her head. "Just leave her alone," she said. Santana stomped around the kitchen for a few more minutes and then retreated to her bedroom to dress.

The sky was flushed with a pale pink that shone between the cracks of the stone grey clouds shifting with the swell of oncoming snow. New York City was nothing less than busy as a bee as the clock ticked eight on a Saturday morning. Kurt swirled the tip of his forefinger in the faint frost that coated the window pane, drawing an altogether too-happy smiley face that seemed to mock him.

"Christian left his jacket at the diner last night," Rachel announced, standing up off the couch and placing her phone indiscreetly down her shirt. "He texted me his address."

Kurt's breath caught in his throat. _Blaine. Blaine's address. _He'd been to his school and now he knew where he lived. It was an invasion of privacy, Kurt was sure, but every fiber of his being ached to explore where he resided.

"Do you want to come and see if you can talk to Blaine?" Rachel wanted to know. "I mean, it'll have to be quick because Christian could be home from work any moment and I'm sure he wouldn't take too kindly to us harassing his roommate—"

"Yes, I want to go," Kurt interrupted. If there was even a tiny shred of possibility that he would get to confront Blaine again, and in a secluded area where he couldn't run away with those hurt-filled hazel eyes, Kurt would snatch it up in a heartbeat.

Christian and Blaine lived in a surprisingly wealthy part of town. There were no scrounging homeless people loitering on the street corners or random shopping carts filled with various soiled clothing items like there were in Kurt's neighborhood. Their apartment building even had an adorable bellhop who eagerly asked if he could help.

"You should move in with Christian," Kurt remarked as they rode in the working elevator up to the seventh floor, bumping Rachel's shoulder playfully. "Then you can live in this nice apartment building and pop out a couple of babies. Just don't forget who helped you on your climb to the top, okay? I expect a penthouse apartment filled with an endless supply of cheesecake and one of those fancy waterbeds."

Rachel laughed, grabbing his hand and lacing their fingers together. "I missed this, you know? I missed my playful Kurt."

Kurt knew what she meant. Between Aaron and the engagement and the issues with Blaine, Kurt had hardly been able to be there for his two best friends in the entire world, despite the fact that they had both been there consistently for him. He needed to fix that. _Adding that to the list of impossible things to fix_, Kurt thought bitterly.

"Apartment two-twenty-one," Rachel said as they rounded the corner. A decorative clay pot filled with two blooming red roses rested beside the door to their room and Kurt couldn't help but think again of Blaine as he once was.

She dug around in the pot before producing a single key and jiggling it into the lock. Suddenly, Kurt couldn't do it. What if Blaine was in there? What if he was high and drunk and sitting on his couch like absolutely nothing was wrong? This was his _home_ and there was nothing stopping him from lashing out and breaking things or doing something rash.

"Rachel. Rachel, wait," Kurt hissed, grabbing her hand as she began to push open the door. "I can't do this."

She rolled her eyes and nudged the door all the way open, striding proudly into the room. "Yes, you can." Kurt froze, his feet glued to the carpeting below him. It was quaint. Small, but furnished in a way that made everything seem orderly and spacey. There was a line of shoes against the left wall, with a tall coat rack against the wall across. An expensive washing and drying machine set was placed in the first opening of the hallway that extended into the living room and kitchen beyond.

Rachel was stalking directly towards the couch, where she put Christian's coat down and inspected the remainder of the room with an approving glance. "Kurt, stop freaking out. He's not here."

Kurt cleared his throat. _He's not here._ He nodded and slowly stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him. Rachel was already prancing her way through the kitchen, marveling at the floral prints on the tile and the organized shopping lists tacked up on the fridge.

"Oh, my god, he buys almond milk!" Rachel said with a giggle.

Kurt took his time padding across the ground. _This is where Blaine walks. _He traced over the faded grey leather of the sofa and the person-shaped indentation that indicated frequent presence. _This is where Blaine sits._ He peered around the corner and down a short hallway lined with doors.

"Where are you going?" Rachel called, but Kurt barely heard her.

"I need to see something."

He opened the first door on the right, knowing the moment he saw the immaculate line of ironed dress shirts and perfectly made bed that it had to be Christian's room. He stopped in front of the next door, his fingers curling over the cool metal of the doorknob. _Blaine touches this doorknob. _

And then the door was open and Kurt was stepping into the room and closing it behind him and pressing his back up against the wall as he inhaled the sweet, musky scent that was entirely _Blaine. _

The simple white sheets of his bed were crumpled and half-tossed onto the crème-colored carpeting. His dresser was an unintelligible mess of wrinkled t-shirts and various empty cologne bottles.

He turned away from the mirror, hands flitting through the discarded accessories until his palm grazed the cool outline of a box. The wood was engraved with an intricate web of wire, weaving in and out in transfixing patters that lead to the metallic fold-over lock. Kurt lifted open the lid with trembling fingers that shook to a rhythm of their own accord.

Concealed underneath shattered and glistening shards of glass, was an unblemished roll of snapshots of Kurt and Blaine.

_"Please, please, please. It'll be just like a 1920's black and white montage!" Kurt insisted, tugging at Blaine's arm and motioning in earnest toward the Lima Hills Mall photo booth. _

_ Blaine sighed, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips as his gaze flickered between his boyfriend and the booth in front of them. "But that's so _cliché. _Who wants to waste three dollars for a roll of pictures we can very well take ourselves?"_

_ "That's not the point, B. It's about the experience; about cramming ourselves into a plastic box and taking stupidly stereotypical teenage romance pictures to hide under our pillows and cackle to ourselves in the dismal dark of the night," Kurt declared._

_ Blaine laughed. "Alright, fine, but you're paying." _

_ "Always the gentleman." _

_ They spent the next couple moments fumbling their way into the booth and trying to accommodate both of them onto the impossibly tiny seat. Finally, Kurt wound up on Blaine's lap with one of his legs sticking awkwardly out from underneath the stark red curtain. _

_ Kurt pointed to the camera. "Look there and smile," he instructed Blaine. _

_ "Thank you for the ever-wise advice." _

_ They both plastered cheesy smirks on their faces when the first flash went off, immediately resituating themselves as the timer ticked down to the next picture. Kurt pressed his lips to Blaine's flushed cheek while Blaine stuck out his tongue and crossed his eyes. The third bright light went off, catching Kurt bent over and mid-laugh while Blaine made as if he was about to lick Kurt's erected coif. _

_ "We have to kiss for the last one."_

_ "Oh, I thought you didn't like 'cliché'."_

_ "We're already too far in, it's now or never, Hummel."_

_ "You're on, Anderson."_

Kurt's stomach was flip-flopping, his breath coming out in heaving gasps. He missed that. He missed feeling utterly and completely in love; being stupid and foolish and carefree. He hesitated before gently placing the pictures back into the box. He fingered a couple of the glass pieces, feeling the sharp edges prick his skin in a way that was almost therapeutic.

It was then that he saw the stained red curve of one of the larger shards. This was what Blaine used. These were the tools Blaine used when he hurt himself. Those were the pictures that filled Blaine's mind every time he opened the designed metal box and picked up the glass. Kurt stumbled, catching himself against the dresser as tears filled his eyes and the world spun around him.

_No. _

He would not let Blaine do this to himself anymore. He was going to take the goddamn box and throw it into a deep, dark hole. He dropped the box like it was filled with fire, slamming shut the lid and turning away.

Crossing his arms over his chest as if that would sooth the pain in his heart, he stalked over to the closet and rifled through his clothing. Ripped jeans, t-shirts, hoodies; clothes that Blaine five years ago wouldn't have even glanced at in the department store.

He reached up, dragging along the top shelf of the closet, pushing away a stack of blankets, and pulling down a somewhat less conspicuous-looking faded blue box. _Please don't let this be like the other._

Bowties. The box was filled with fucking bowties. Kurt couldn't help the laugh that bubbled out his lips or the tears that spilled down over his cheeks. Of all the things Blaine could've kept, he saved the damned bowties. Red ones, blue ones, pink ones, ones with little Christmas trees, ones with tiny microphones, ones covered in the letter "B", ones covered in music notes. They were just _bowties. _

Next to them was a neatly assorted array of playbills. Blaine had almost more than Kurt. _Wicked, Annie, Chicago, RENT, Hairspray, Hair, Spring Awakening, Cats, Phantom of the Opera, the Lion King, the Book of Mormon, Cinderella._ They filled Kurt with an acute sort of jubilancy, like he was back in Ohio printing out cheap Broadway covers while Blaine kissed the back of his neck.

He replaced the box and circled the room once before plopping down on top of his mattress. The box of bowties and alphabetized playbills and pictures in the box; those were Blaine. The drugs and the alcohol and that horrible, antagonizing look of oblivion that passed over his face before he realized who he was looking at; that was not Blaine.

"I'm going to fix you," Kurt said into the silence of the room. "I swear, I will fix you."

With that, Kurt gathered up the box of glass and frozen memories from the dresser surface, wishing he could gather up his heart in a similar fashion, and promptly left with the words still burning on the tip of his tongue.


End file.
